


Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After"

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [15]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: Betrayal, F/F, Free Agency, Independence, Post-Episode: s05e22 Not Fade Away, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truth will out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


  
   _All this time I watched my woman_  
   Drowning in a pool of tears  
   And I've seen a lot of good folk die...

   - David Allen Coe

  
   There is a moment between asleep and awake; a timeless eternity where she is sufficiently aware of reality, yet still blissfully mired in dreams. The warm body that lies beside her is lush and ample, less wired with muscle, and if she were to open her eyes she would find the hair strewn about her pillow not the black of raven's wings but the color of wheat and honey. Sometimes she is more conscious of her error, sometimes more guilty. But always the inevitable realization is accompanied by a complex rush of emotions. For always there is that which is seen, and that which is not seen.

   Willow knows not to feel bad about these moments.

   Sometimes it helps.

  
**

  
   _"Sassy eggs."_

   "You say something?"

   "Huh?" Willow looks up from her plate with a frown. "Just...trying to remember. Stuff."

   She doesn't realize how much dread the inevitable inquiry has dredged up, until the quirk of the Slayer's smile dissipates her worry.

   "Hope it's the good stuff."

   Willow returns the smile with growing confidence. "Right now? I'm trying to remember _this_."

   "Perfect moment?" Faith glances at the other tables and their assortment of whitebread professionals. This morning's venue is the open-air patio of a small bistro, within sight of their New York hotel. "Little crowded for my taste."

   "You'd rather be antisocial networking?" Willow is careful to keep the teasing tone light. "Or were you wanting more privacy for some other reason?"

   "Maybe." Faith allows a brief smirk before returning her attention to the rapidly vanishing kitchen-sink omelette.

   Willow looks on, admiring. Faith is a woman with hearty appetites, the unashamed manner in which she wolfs down breakfast much like how she applies herself to all things: Namely, with gusto to spare. Some night, Willow really has to pull out that Barry White CD she's been saving.

   "I don't know how you can shovel down that much food and look graceful doing it."

   "Uh..." Faith's self-consciousness resurfaces. "'Cause I'm not trying?"

   Willow takes pity and looks away. "Did you get ahold of Dana?"

   "Went to voicemail." Faith shrugs, affecting indifference. "Dawn's probably got her in therapy right now anyway."

   "She really sounded that bad?" Willow tries to stay focused on the problem before her, which is Faith. Not that Faith is a problem.

   "Hard to say." The Slayer finishes the last bite, setting down her fork with a light clank. Willow finds herself floundering.

   "You want to talk about something else?"

   "Like what?"

   "What do we usually talk about?"

   It's an honest question, genuine curiosity. Still, it causes Faith to do her own brief gaping fish impression.

   "Uh..." The Slayer clears her throat. "We don't. Much," she hastily amends.

   "That's not true --"

   "Not saying it's a bad thing," Faith continues.

   "So it's a comfortable silence."

   "Yeah, well --"

   "It's comfortable." Willow reaches over and quickly, discreetly squeezes the other woman's fist. She sometimes resents having to repress like a Bible belter, but Faith's reactions to PDA are notoriously mercurial. "If it wasn't, I'd say."

   Faith appears somewhat mollified. "I know it's been a while since we did that whole mind walk. I mean, I know I said it was cheating, but --"

   "Water under the bridge." Willow waves this off, hoping her smile doesn't seem artificial. Faith remains skeptical.

   "You sure?"

   "I don't need to read your mind to know how you feel." Willow doesn't watch for a reaction, casually going back to her own breakfast. "Or how I feel."

   She's paying more attention to the strangers around them than the one sitting across the table. But when they get up to leave, the Slayer's arm lingers a moment about her waist, and inside Willow smiles. Quiet closeness in the midst of a crowd; nothing real but the woman beside her, the empty air beneath their feet.

   Life is good.

   "So," she offers, taking advantage of the opportunity for hand holding. "Any thoughts on where next?"

   She feels herself pulled to a halt, as Faith fails to respond. Or move.

   "Sorry," Willow mutters as she disengages. Or tries to. The Slayer gazes across the street at a shabby, nondescript newsstand.

   "What is it?" Willow squints, failing to discern anything. "Geez. I really need to have my eyes..."

   Faith lets go, pulls out her cell and heads for the hotel, double time. Willow watches her retreating back, torn on whether to follow when something catches her eye.

   Luckily there's a break in traffic. She dashes across the lanes, clutching her laptop bag to her chest. The closer she gets, the more familiar the building appears until it looms in her sight on the front page of the Los Angeles Times:

  
   **HISTORICAL LANDMARK FALLS TO RED TAPE**

  
   Her hand does not tremble as it reaches out.

   _The Hyperion Hotel, long vacant until recent renovations by an unnamed private consortium, was tragically destroyed yesterday in a bureaucratic mixup. The Department of Public Works is so far unable to explain how the building was mistakenly marked for demolition. Thankfully no lives appear to have been lost..._

   She doesn't hear the vendor as she throws money at him; turning and running after Faith. The Slayer has reached the end of the block, standing on the street corner, pacing back and forth as she clutches the phone. Willow can make out snatches of a one-sided conversation that ends abruptly when Faith snaps the phone shut and breaks into a sprint, leaving her in the dust.

   There is more than enough time between there and the hotel for all kinds of thoughts, none of them good. How this is getting to be a habit; how her childhood asthma is not being helped by it. How she'd been hoping to talk to her grandmother again before they left.

   How ill-equipped she feels, of a sudden, to deal with the unknown abyss that looms underneath.

   She enters their room, breathless, to find what she more or less expected: Faith furiously packing, hurling items this way and that as she wrestles clothes into submission.

   "Meeting my ass!" The Slayer shuts her suitcase, forcing the lock closed. The abused luggage strains at the seams, but holds. "Where's my sword?"

   Willow manages to squeeze something out between wheezes. "Which one?"

   "Not the museum piece, the good one! Jesus, I knew we shouldn'ta picked up all this crap --"

   Willow staggers into the bathroom. She can hear Faith fall silent in the background as she splashes her face and gulps down precious fluids.

   When she emerges, the Slayer is waiting. Willow feels the chill in her belly spread further still. The look in Faith's eye brings to mind nothing less than General Buffy, in those fateful days before the fall of Sunnydale.

   "Port us." Faith slings her backpack over one shoulder, hefting her sword in the opposite hand.

   "Did you talk to Buffy --"

   Faith's grip on the sword tightens to white. "_Now._"

   "Give me a minute." She's no calmer than before. Still, it's amazing how much easier it is to fake it when you can breathe. "Less shortcut, less pain for both of us. Okay?"

   Faith nods, a spastic, jerking motion as Willow sinks to the floor in a lotus and closes her eyes, taking hold of her fear.

   "Don't suppose you ever read _A Wrinkle In Time_?"

   Faith doesn't answer.

   "Try to relax." Already Willow sounds distracted to herself. "When it happens, it'll be quick."

   "Just lock the last chevron, okay?"

   Willow turns and regards Faith with something like surprise. "You're a fan of the 'gate?"

   "Carter." Faith's game face slips a notch. "Blonde. Geek."

   As mystical energy spirals through her, Willow muses briefly on the rental of air force dress blues.

   Her breath slows, and then the beat of her heart. Fast food, instant oatmeal meditation, but a nod's as good as a wink. Don't think about what might have happened to Angel; why Buffy won't answer the phone.

   She is the most powerful witch in the hemisphere. With a Slayer at her side, who can stand against them?

   Her awareness expands like sonar. Encompassing the room, the city, the universe...

   Faith raises her sword.

   A bubble pops.

   The room is empty.

  
**

This entry was originally posted at <http://frogfarm.dreamwidth.org/116793.html>. Speak your piece there using OpenID or whatever.

__  
**Faith the Vampire Slayer: 1x06 (teaser)**  



	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
---|---  
  
_   
**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After" (Act 1)**   
_

>   
> _"There's only one way to hurt a man who's lost everything. Give him back something broken."_  
>   - Thomas Covenant

  
**(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/118427.html#cutid1) **)**

  
**Faith the Vampire Slayer  
Year One**

by [](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/profile)[**frogfarm**](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/) ([damaged justice](mailto:realfrogfarm@gmail.com))

tireless lashing and overseeing by [](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/profile)[**strapping_lass**](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/)  
assistant word wrangling and pedantry fine points by [](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/profile)[**sam_arkand**](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/)

**1x06:**

"The Day After"

  
   They vanished from the room. Not in a metaphorical sense, but an all-too literal one. Right in front of his cameras, captured on film along with every glorious moment of their fighting and fucking. One minute David's watching premium adult cable; the next it's as if he's tuned into the world's cheesiest sci-fi show with a butt-splice for a teleportation effect. The redhead sits down on the floor, starts tweaking out all Baba Rammed Ass, and seven minutes thirty-two seconds later two women _blink_ out of existence. Only faster than a blink, because it seems to happen between frames.

   He's on the verge of a fourth playback when he nearly reaches out and slaps his own hand away.

   He forces himself up and out of the chair, pacing back and forth as he stares at the frozen video image, wishing mightily that he still smoked. He's known this sort of thing was possible ever since the colonel -- so named for the eponymous chicken vendor -- first showed him the video. But theory and practice are two separate beasts. And this practically scares the crap out of him.

   He stays sane by focusing on the task at hand. On what he knows to be real.

   Like that newspaper on their bed.

  
**

  
   "You gonna hog that all day? Gimme a hit."

   "No way, punk." Otis dangles the bottle before his target. Off to the side, Trina giggles. Otis deigns to throw her a wink.

   "See, around here we _earn_ our drinks, little brother."

   Leon's swipe at the bottle is desultory, in keeping with the ritual. Otis cackles as he continues to ascend.

   "Come on, Leon! Don't tell me you can't catch an old man!"

   Trina's laughter from below impels him upward. Eyes watering from the lingering smoke in the air, free hand singed by the heat still emanating from the scorched and broken earth, Otis reaches the summit and uncaps his cargo for an exultant swig, throwing his head to the sky.

   "I'm king of the hill, baby!"

   As if in response, a thunderclap sounds overhead.

   "Mother sapien!" Leon likes to use big words to sound big. He scrambles toward his brother, unable to find sure footing on the cracked, uneven ground. "Gimme that or --"

   The lightning hits.

   Leon staggers backward, eyes and mouth slowly spiraling into black holes. His older brother stands stock-still, a dark stain spreading across the front of his jeans as he swallows, trying desperately to keep his own eyes on the blade hovering a scant millmeter from his Adam's apple. Because to top it all off, this frigging Highlander relic is being held -- and one-handed at that -- by a gorgeous, angry, and clearly insane girl who _definitely_ wasn't there a second ago.

   "What the fuck you think you're doing?"

   "Hannhh..." The bottle slips from Otis's grasp, rolling downhill. Leon would protest the loss of liquid, but he doesn't want to interrupt. Besides, she might point that thing at him.

   "Just playing!" Trina must be on the verge of panic because she's on her hands and knees as she scrambles up the mountain, heedless of her expensive skirt and carefully applied makeup. "Jesus, we were just playing around --"

   The girl -- woman, Leon thinks, not much older than them -- regards them with a deadly stare. For the first time he notices the silent, unassuming redhead beside her, scanning them with no less intensity.

   "Playtime's over."

   The muscles in the woman's forearm stand out like steel cables, yet the enormous blade passes effortlessly through the air as the tip of the sword lifts, brushing Otis on the chin. She reaches out one finger to poke him in the chest.

   "Now go home."

   Leon never looked back. He found out later Otis got hung up on barbed wire and blamed him for it, which was nothing new. Trina lost a heel, but considered herself lucky after the stories she'd heard. She only went with the boys on a stupid dare, and you couldn't pay her enough to do it again. Unless the next time someone appeared out of thin air, it was that Angel guy.

   At least that's what she said.

  
**

  
   Some other time, it might have afforded amusement. Now Faith doesn't bother to watch as the would-be delinquents skedaddle their little hearts out, shrieking and tumbling downhill in their haste. She's too busy surveying their surroundings. Taking stock of the situation.

   It doesn't look good. In fact, it looks like --

   "Did you have to scare them off?" Willow sounds slightly aggrieved. "They might have been able to answer some questions."

   "When I want advice on which two-buck chuck to bring to the party, I'll be sure to give 'em a holler." Faith looks around, slowly lowering her sword. "You're sure this is the place?"

   "I've been here. Same as you." Willow is emphatic but calm in her surety. "Plus I've been to LA before."

   "Same as me." Faith turns away before she can see the redhead's reaction. Bad enough her own response to the stirring up of some shit, and her first sojourn in the big city is nothing to be proud of.

   Willow raises one hand, then pauses. "You want me to scan for trace magicks?"

   "Yeah."

   Faith stares about the blasted landscape, taking in the full extent of the damage. The entire area lies enclosed by chain link fence topped with concertina wire, festooned all along its length with bright orange hazard signs. Beyond the perimeter the main thoroughfare is barricaded at both ends, silent and devoid of traffic.

   She looks down at the ground. The anger that had barely receded still simmers underneath, seeking some sort of outlet. With no convenient ass to put boot to, Faith is left with something that -- she learned from her prison Bible -- always leads to misery.

   _Think._

   "There's no rubble." She forces herself to say it aloud. "No debris of any kind."

   Willow, slowly walking in circles, gives no indication of having heard. The witch's eyes are half-shut as faintly glowing sparks emanate from her fingertips.

   "I don't see --" Faith clears her throat. "Can't smell any blood."

   That gets a Willow-look. "I thought vamp senses were better than Slayers."

   "I can smell it." She slides the sword into her back scabbard, shrugs off the backpack in one smooth motion. "When it's there."

   Willow seems about to say something before turning away, resuming her silent scan. Faith ignores her in favor of a complete spot check of the contents of her pack. Nothing like finding out too late your food turned to dust and your weapons into pudding. But everything seems intact.

   "Whoever did this had help." Faith pulls out the overcoat and shrugs it on. Little bit of overhang from the sword, but it can't be helped.

   Willow stops in her tracks. "Them and what army?"

   "Come on, Will. Remember Sunnydale? All those political cover-ups?"

   "You mean --"

   Faith shrugs, fatalistic. "Can't fight city hall."

  
**

  
   The fastest jet available on such short notice is a redeye express being held over at JFK. All it takes is one phone call from David, then one from the company. Problem solved, zero security theater, and total privacy: The entire cabin to himself, apart from a short-haired stewardess with a fetching smile and a suspicious bulge near the waist. Even so he carries no weapons; no electronics or even paper. All up in his head, where he's now going over it in his obsessive, methodical way.

   Every contact with the so-called supernatural since his initial encounter has been frustratingly vague and tantalizing. Too little, too late.

   "You want a laptop?"

   "Pardon?" He looks up to the stew flashing a fresh smile. David thinks she doesn't even look twenty.

   "Encrypted connection. Strictly for in-flight use?"

   "Oh. Yes, please." A thought occurs as his stomach growls. "Not to sound too demanding, but would there be any chance of breakfast?"

   "Unfortunately, the kitchen's being restocked at LAX." Her smile of apology isn't so effective. "Got plenty of good coffee, though."

   "Caffeine makes me jittery." He offers his own best charmer. All these smiles, and no one at ease. "Just the laptop."

   He spends the next few hours immersed in semi-random surfing, supplemented by judicious covert queries into more restricted database territories. The headlines alone are enough to make a grown man cry, and that's before contemplating extrahuman involvement. But he comes away from his research with a narrow number of starting points, the most promising of which looks to be the murder of one Senator Bruckner. Not to mention the subsequent disappearance of her office staff.

   "We'll be landing in twenty minutes."

   "Thanks." He hesitates, and she points at the keyboard.

   "Just do a normal shutdown."

   "You sure?"

   "It's all live." Apparently she can do reassuring. "Nothing gets saved to disk."

   He obeys, watching the screen flicker into oblivion.

   "Nice not talking to you." Her gaze roams all over him before returning to his face. "Why David?"

   "Why which?" For a moment, he wonders if they're related.

   "Come on," she scoffs. "We both know it's not your real name."

   "I won't tell if you won't." The attempted charm is less successful this time. He's out of practice. "I've had so many, I don't remember what's real."

   She looks him in the eye, curious and challenging. "So why David?"

   He chuckles, polishing his glasses on his shirt, holding them up to the light.

   "Because that makes whoever I'm fighting Goliath."

  
**

  
   "I need coffee."

   "Go get some." Faith doesn't look up, concentrating on her exploration. More like impromptu excavation, at the center of ground zero.

   "I don't want to leave you alone." Willow's frayed nerves, like her own, are definitely not from lack of caffeine alone. Faith finds herself gritting her teeth.

   "It's just mondo jet lag." The Slayer shrugs, poking another spot with her sword. "Losing three hours that fast will screw with anyone's head."

   Willow gives her the worried look times two. "You think it's throwing me off?"

   "If you're sure you didn't feel anything --"

   "But that's just it! How can I be sure, if --"

   "Chill." Faith gives it the note of command. Willow falls silent, but she can already see the mounting resistance. Can't blame her. In Will's position, she'd feel the same.

   "You said you didn't feel anything. If that changes, you'll let me know. Good enough." Faith changes the subject. "What's the time in London?"

   "Uh, GMT minus -- no, plus --" Willow smacks herself in the forehead, breathing heavily. "No, they _are_ GMT! Stupid, stupid --"

   "Do I have to say it again?"

   Willow swallows, staring at Faith. The Slayer's voice is filled with an eerie calm.

   "I'm just as screwed up by this as you are. More." Faith keeps it low and steady, unblinking as she stares the witch down. "And if we're gonna find out what happened, and save who we can -- we need to _focus_, on --"

   "Army." Willow's eyes have gone out of focus, her hands fallen limp at her sides. "There _was_ an army..."

   Faith resists the urge to grab her, shake hard and demand answers. But that trick never works. Not like she's a magic eight-ball.

   "They sent legions..." Willow's own voice drops to a whisper, her unseeing eyes clouding over in a shimmering grey. "They fought. The ones who were left..." Her brow furrows. "_Spike?_"

   Faith realizes she's digging her nails into her palm. Again.

   "What the hell was..." Willow's quizzical expression falters, and the witch suddenly reels, clutching her belly. Faith springs to assist her, but Willow shrugs away the offer.

   "You said it." For the first time since this morning, Faith remembers she actually cares what happens to this woman. "What the hell was that?"

   "Something powerful." Willow's complexion has turned a ghastly viridian. "But it was on their side."

   "Angel's?" At Willow's nod, Faith shakes her head. "Figures."

   "Try calling Buffy again?" Willow sounds almost pleading, and Faith swallows the reflexive retort. "And I want to call my grandmother. Have her pick up our stuff from the hotel?"

   "Good idea." Faith pulls out her phone, walking away before it goes any further. Some things she wants to say might best be out of earshot.

   "_You've reached Slayer Central. All lines are temporarily busy._" The dulcet tones of Andrew don't make voicemail any more appealing. "_Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line, or press star to --_"

   "B. Got a sitch in LA. Call me." A split second's hesitation. "I could use the Scythe."

   She disconnects, ignoring the growing hurricane down deep in her guts. Willow's chattering away, somehow managing honest optimism. Faith looks away with a sigh.

   A figure in the shadows ducks out of sight.

   Faith is off and running before she realizes it, ditching coat, backpack and scabbard in her wake before accelerating to a sprint. Willow's shout is lost in the wind as she hits the street, rounds the corner of the alley at a dead run and launches herself at the running figure in the grey overcoat.

   She's on the verge of placing the familiar scream when they hit the trash heap together, buried in the resulting avalanche.

   "Mercy," the figure groans underneath her. "I'm a lounge lizard, not a fighter..."

   But Faith isn't listening. Only staring; ignoring Willow running up behind her, skidding to a halt with the same shock of recognition. Because both of them would know that green scaly skin, those scary red eyes and cute little horns anywhere.

   "Lorne."

  
**

  
   The famed Los Angeles smog is beginning to lift by the time David disembarks, casting a faint shade of piss over an otherwise impressive horizon. He's trying to recall the best way to get around in this particular city. Trouble is, he wasn't kidding. As little as he remembers of himself, it's a wonder he can still do his job. So much of his training is reflex sometimes it's a shock to glance in the mirror, the wire rimmed glasses and spiky, disheveled hair presenting an image of disarming innocence at complete odds with his internal state. Only the slight crows' feet around the corners of his eyes to say otherwise, or the hardness in his gaze.

   He mulls his route over, juggling possibilities. At least he remembers the general geography. Assuming procuring a vehicle won't be an issue, he should be able to make it to the Senator's office before noon. Of course the best laid plans always fuck up somewhere along the line, regardless. And parking in this town is notorious, almost as bad as New York. The last thing he needs is to have to waste time dealing with local enforcement.

   Maybe the overt approach is better. Pass himself off as a fibbie; let his phony credentials do the talking, open doors that would otherwise remain closed. Cross that bridge when he gets to it.

   In the meantime, he's making a list and checking it twice. Scanning the yellow pages, under P, for Private Investigators. See what the competition thought of Mr. Angel.

   He can't help but wonder if it's a waste of time. writing up these reports. As if the men above him have no idea that they live in a world where people can disappear and reappear thousands of miles from where they began. And that's just scratching the surface. Hell, they're the ones who gave him this assignment in the first place.

   Time to step back. Reexamine the big picture.

   After lunch.

  
**

  
   "Nice place." Faith gives the stained and tattered couch a cursory inspection, opting to remain standing. "Who's your decorator?"

   "Good to see your super-sarcasm powers are still in effect." Lorne winces as he removes hat and coat to reveal an equally soiled sport shirt and slacks. Even the polish on his shoes is gone.

   "It's a hole a rat wouldn't live in," he continues, gesturing aimlessly at the peeling walls. "That's why I won't miss it when I move out tomorrow. As I'll no doubt have to once every bad guy in town knows you were here. Because this little green hen is done being pecked."

   Willow looks over, troubled. "We can protect you --"

   "You'd have to put me in a bubble." The anagogic demon fishes a bottle from the depths of his coat pockets, unscrewing the cap and taking a hefty swallow. "And I'm done living there."

   "Do you know what happened to him?" Faith avoids making it sound like an accusation.

   "What happened to _us_ is more like it." Lorne rubs his forehead, scratching the spot where his horns emerge. "Honey, Sergeant Schultz knows more than I do. I was supposed to do my job and walk away. Except stupid sentiment got the best of me, and I had to visit the scene of the crime. At which point you decided to use me as a training dummy in your audition for quarterback."

   "I said I was sorry." Faith lowers her voice, trying to likewise modulate her temper. "What do you want from me?"

   "To let me finish walking away." Lorne sags against the wall and sinks to the floor, grasping the bottle like a lifeline. "I'm not cut out for the hero biz, girls. I never was, and Angel knew it. That's why he let me go. And then of all the joints in the world --"

   "We had to walk into yours." Faith squats down, keeping the Pylean at eye level rather than towering overhead.

   Willow says nothing, remaining perched in the edge of the couch, intent on their every word. Belatedly Faith remembers that the witch has met Lorne once before, in delivering the news of Buffy's death.

   "That last job," Faith says, quite softly. "What was it?"

   "Don't ask." Lorne takes another swig, making a horrible face. "Also? Same goes for what's in this stuff."

   Willow frowns. "I thought alcohol didn't affect your species."

   "It doesn't. I always drank for the taste." Lorne raises the bottle in a toast. "Now I prefer the blissful oblivion of being hammered. Basting in the sauce is much more suited to this post-modern age."

   "Then how --"

   "I lace it with Brachen sweat." Lorne chuckles at the redhead's shudder. "Told you not to ask. Ramone would be horrified."

   "Look, I get the big disconnect." Faith can feel herself growing desperate, hating the sound of it coming through in her voice. "No more sunny side of life. But there's gotta be something you can tell us."

   Lorne shakes his head. "I haven't seen them, I haven't talked to them, I haven't heard anything about _any_ of them. I wish I could help, but --"

   "What about Spike?"

   "Huh?" Lorne appears thrown off balance by Willow's interruption. "Other than the timeless hairdo and chiseled jaw to die for -- what about him?"

   "Last we knew," Faith cuts in, "he went up in smoke closing the Sunnydale hellmouth." She turns to Willow. "Sounds like he's following in Angel's footsteps again."

   "Somehow." Willow nods in agreement. "It's always about competition with those two."

   "What are you talking about?" Lorne sways, nearly pitching forward onto the floor. "After Andrew came and snatched Dana from under our noses? Your whole Council had to have known Spike was alive undead. That boy couldn't keep his mouth shut if it was krazy glued!"

   "Will?" Faith chooses her words with utmost care, not looking away from Lorne. "Did Andrew's first report on Dana say _anything_ about Spike?"

   "No." Willow's response is immediate and unequivocal.

   "You're asking me for an explanation of your bureaucracy?" Lorne waves the bottle in the witch's direction, slumping further against the wall. "Methinks I'm not the only one being hit by the sauce."

   Willow's gaze flickers between the two of them, the trepidation in her eyes reflecting the growing confusion and anger Faith feels gnawing at her belly.

   "Okay," She already hates herself. But what else is new? "I didn't want to do this."

   "So don't." Lorne offers her the bottle, gamely taking another swallow when she silently declines. "Do what I did. Just...walk away."

   "Not my style." Faith reaches out and grabs his jaw, gently forcing him to once more look her in the eye.

   "When I was on that shit. Orpheus."

   Lorne blinks, then nods, uncomprehending.

   "You sat with me. You held my hand." Faith continues with increasing confidence. "You _sang_ for me."

   "I..." Lorne's resolve appears to waver. His shoulders sag, but he doesn't look away. "I don't do that any more either."

   "I'm not asking you to." Faith steels her heart against a breaking. "Just do me one last favor, too. Before you quit the hero biz."

   "I'm tapped out." Lorne opens his hands to display their emptiness, nearly losing the bottle until he remembers its presence. "Spread too thin. Burned out. Faded away --"

   "Drunk and depressed," Faith interrupts. "But I can't afford to wait for you to sober up. I need information."

   "Or what, Number Two?" Lorne stabs a belligerent finger in her face. "You think you can just breeze into town and sing it, Sam? Waltz into my little corner of filth and demand a reading? Well, you can forget it!"

   "Read?" Faith's brow furrows.

   "Yeah, the whole you sing, I read your destiny..." Lorne trails off, looking distinctly ill. "Oh, whimmy wham wham wozzle."

  
**

  
   Part of the training is to acquire whatever may be needed at will -- and to discard it just as readily, when necessity requires. The first thing on the list is transportation, a theft so brazen as to beggar description, being as it happens in broad daylight with multiple witnesses. No matter. He'll have another before the day is through.

   Good practice.

   To provide even greater incentive, his current route takes him right by Los Angeles Chinatown. David takes advantage of this by making a slight detour, finding a smoky backroom smelling of dried fish and relying on his passable Cantonese to haggle the cost of a new pistol. He has six credit card numbers memorized at the moment, but the object is to rely on company resources as little as possible.

   As expected, his negotiators switch to Mandarin to converse amongst themselves, in which he's as fluent as a native. While he learns nothing of particular use, it's always good to know what people really think. He repays the insults by switching to their boss's car when he leaves, peeling out with his old one wiped down inside, artfully arranged with its tires slashed and blocking the entrance to their compound.

   He'd forgotten how much fun this was.

   Naturally, that's when he remembers he has a job to do.

   The senator's office is only a few more miles. Depending on the results of his investigation there, he'll have to decide whether to proceed to the site of the Hyperion. Three more PI's in the book, none of whom so far have had anything helpful to contribute, regardless of their attitude toward himself or the vanished Angel. He remembers the name from the Slayer's files, a mysterious figure who visited more than once while she was behind bars. And another name that kept cropping up, from Faith's first appearance in LA to her breaking out of prison: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Formerly of the Watcher's Council that's got his employers in such a tizzy.

   He sets up a few net searches, keying them to alert via text messages on his newly purchased prepaid phone. Let it chew on that while he searches the office. He'll check the results when he's done. In the meantime, he's looking forward to more actual field work.

   He just hopes it doesn't get too wet.

  
**

  
   "I can't do it." Faith utterly fails to resist the urge to squirm. "Quit lookin' at me."

   "What do you always tell me?" Willow's kindly manner doesn't conceal her urgency. "You're thinking too hard."

   "Never thought I'd have that problem." But Faith can still feel the platform teetering beneath; the rope around her neck.

   Willow turns to Lorne, pleading. "Can she take requests?"

   "Afraid not." The anagogue makes as if to take another swig, then screws the cap back on with a sigh. "It's gotta be from the heart."

   "I could pick something I know she likes." As usual, Willow continues on what Faith is sure is a doomed course of attempting to be helpful. "Anything by AC/DC is a gimme. Or the odd country --"

   "Will, I know you're trying but this is _not_ the time." Faith bites down on anything more, watching the hurt slowly fade from the other woman's eyes to be replaced with pragmatic understanding.

   "Gimme a minute."

   She ignores their silent stares, her own gaze fixed on nothing as she delves inward. Focus on nothing, not even why they're here; only the good things. Angel. Diana, her first watcher. Janice, the prison librarian...

   Something stirs inside. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs; one of the few memories of her mother that fails to evoke rage or pity. And the two of them standing together, the crowd joining as one...

   Faith clears her throat, feeling heat rise to her cheeks as her trembling voice takes wing.

            "_Oh say, can you see  
            By the dawn's early light..._"

   Her song flutters to a halt as Lorne rockets out of his rickety recliner, jerked upright like a stage puppet. For a moment he stares at the Slayer, frozen in abject horror.

   Then he doubles over, clutching his ribs, vomiting forth gouts of blood.

  
**

  
   David passes the office without slowing, noting the boarded up windows and prominent lines of police tape. The diner on the corner offers a reasonable view, and he takes a light lunch at the last available window seat, distracting the waitress with idle flirtatious chatter. He's far more out of practice at that particular art, but by the time he leaves a sizable tip under the plate, he's reasonably sure she'd part with her number if asked.

   Which he doesn't. Why torture either of them?

   He doesn't remember if he was married. Suppose it's a blessing, not being able to recall some things. All the better to focus on his target.

   Normally, returning that night would be the prudent option. But countless viewings of the Initiative logs, combined with various clandestine footage acquired by hook and crook alike, have left him with -- he hesitates to call it a _fear_ of the dark. More a perfectly reasonable foreboding. So he justifies to himself as he scouts the surrounding area, weighing alternative entry points. Take too long to decide, it won't matter whether he goes through the sewer.

   He's about to try the building next door for hidden connections when a car pulls up outside the office, a crappy import with more than a few turns on the odometer. David drops to one knee, fiddling with the lace on his sneakers as the driver emerges.

   A blonde woman. Unless it's a dye job, neither one of his targets. He risks a quick glance back, seeing her duck under the tape. As he rounds the corner, he can hear the sound of breaking wood.

   Cop or no cop, she may as well be. Point being she's clearly unconcerned about concealing her presence. Now is when some of that high tech hardware would come in handy. Monitor her ass right through the walls.

   Enough crying over milk not yet spilt.

   He enters from the alley, picking the lock in record time. The door yields to an industrial kitchen, hardly used, a single pot sitting atop the stove whose contents have long since boiled away. At least one of the so-called investigators had the brains to turn off the gas.

   More breaking wood. Splintering; cracking. David draws his gun, hoping like hell he can at least rely on it long enough to find a better.

   "I knew you'd come sniffing round."

   He freezes at the guttural snarl, his blood running hot and chill. That familiar lisp, so laughable otherwise, he has come to recognize as the inevitable consequence of trying to talk with a mouthful of more than the usual teeth.

   Thankfully the voice comes from just beyond the swinging doors, in the next room. Back to the wall, he strains to make out more.

   "Thought you'd try digging up some more dirt on my boss. After you put an _axe_ through her head?"

   "I didn't --" The woman's voice cuts off in a gasp.

   "Hold her tighter." A note of sadistic amusement is creeping in. "You want files? I'll give you freaking files, you --"

   His finger comes to rest on the trigger.

   _Walk away --_

  
**

This entry was originally posted at <http://frogfarm.dreamwidth.org/117771.html>. Speak your piece there using OpenID or whatever.


	3. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After" (Act 2)

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
---|---  
  
  
Incalculable thanks to [](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/profile)[**sam_arkand**](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/) for technical assistance and humongous contributions to plot/drama. This episode is exponentially the better for them. If you haven't already, check out his latest, [Legacy](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/27581.html), following Anne Steele, Cordelia and Dawn as they each deal with Buffy's death in "The Gift".

**(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/118427.html#cutid1) **)**  
**(** [Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/119485.html) **)**

   A truck rumbles by outside, air horn sounding in a long blast.

   David slowly removes booger finger from bang switch, adjusting his stance as he eases along the wall, away from the doors. The nine millimeter in his hand seems woefully inadequate, but even with his knife experience he'd hesitated to bring along a stake. Clearly the weapon of choice for experts, but why bring a stake to a gunfight?

   "You hear something?" The first speaker is hesitant.

   "I thought you said you checked the back." David tenses at the level of suspicion in the second voice. "Check it again."

   Momentarily torn on whether to get involved or go on the offensive, both eyes on the door, David consequently finds himself taken completely by surprise when a fist punches through the wall and grabs him by the front of his jacket.

   He kicks at the wall, trying to tear loose, beating at the hideously strong grip with the butt of his pistol. One finger snaps under his blows, resulting in a howl of pain and himself being wrenched forward, his head bouncing off the thin plaster, leaving a David-shaped dent.

   A deeper howl from the next room cuts through the daze of pain. Apparently the hostage has taken advantage of his distraction. David struggles to keep a grip on his piece, trying not to be pulled right through the wall, when a shout rings out.

   "Quit screwing around!" It's the deeper one. "Whoever you are, drop any weapons and get in here, both hands on your head!"

   The tug-of-war ceases, if not the unbreakable grip. David shakes his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears.

   "You boys are in serious trouble." He focuses on calling the bluff, upping the ante. "Assaulting a federal agent. And that's just for starters --"

   "If you don't get in here right now, this woman dies. And while it will be quick, I can't promise it will be painless."

   David can make out the muffled sounds of brief struggle. Briefly, he considers shooting through the wall before rejecting the notion out of hand. Can't see his targets, or where the hostage is.

   _What are you doing?_ The inner protest is deafening. Playing a role is for when it offers some advantage. And now is clearly not the time to play at negotiator.

   "I'm a little pinned down at the moment --"

   "Let him go."

   The order is obeyed with disarming immediacy. David staggers before stumbling toward the door, kneeling and placing his pistol directly behind the door. He opens the door with one foot, hands on his head as instructed.

   As he steps into the room, taking in its contents at a glance before assessing the people, his attacker grabs him and shoves forward, forcing him to his knees. Can't get a good look. Not so the one holding the blonde, inspecting David like a bug he wants to squash. The tailored suit is torn and smudged, obviously seen better days, but the ridged brow and glowing yellow eyes only cement the impression of a born predator.

   "Two for the price of one." David is all too aware he is not imagining the salivary anticipation. The woman has ceased struggling, her defiant gaze rapidly darting between the three of them. "Told you it was time to come out of hiding."

   "I don't like it." His attacker's grip on his wrists never wavers, but there's no mistaking the worry in that voice. "We just got off their radar, and you want to pick off a fed?"

   "We used to own the feds." The vampire -- _sweet Jesus in a nutshell, yes, your very first vampire_ \-- grabs the woman by the hair and yanks her head back, staring her down. "Hell, we used to _be_ the feds, and more. No two-bit dick would have dared to say boo."

   The woman stares back, her muffled breath wheezing through the weight of his hand.

   "Now I," the vampire continues, breathing just as heavily. "I have been sitting in that sewer all night having to listen to you. And I am _not_ going back down there without a long tall drink --"

   His head throws back with an agonizing scream as her hand works free, clamping down on his crotch.

   David goes limp and rolls, lashing out in an attempt to kick his attacker's feet out from under him. In this he is only partly successful, managing to annoy the other vampire and once more become the object of its attention.

   "Oh, you bitch!" The alpha vamp lifts up the woman by both shoulders like a struggling infant, bringing her closer as she presses mightily against his chest with both hands. "I'm so taking my t--"

   The sound of a _chunk_ distracts both David and his attacker from their battle. As one they stare at the other vampire, his face contorting in agony before his body disintegrates and falls away, leaving the woman standing with a jagged length of wood protruding from one sleeve.

   She levels it at David's attacker with a grin.

   "Boo."

   Having just regained equilibrium, David finds himself hurtling through the air, crashing into the swinging doors that lead back to the kitchen. With enough presence of mind to roll, he scrambles to the spot where his gun still lies; kicks open the door, sights and fires, with his first prayer in years unknown.

   The resulting scream is spectacular, the hollow points doing their job and taking out sizable chunks in passing. If only the bastard hadn't turned at the last, his Mozambique drill -- double tap to the chest, one in the head -- would have landed square and dead center. Amazingly, the damn thing is still on its feet. Makes him wonder if one in the neck might count as decapitation. He's about to try and find out when it turns and runs into the adjoining room, leaving a trail of blood.

   David doesn't stop to think. Only to give chase, until he finds himself standing staring at a hole in the wall behind an overturned locker. The tunnel leads downward, likely to the sewer, and with no responsibility to hostages his first priority should be pursuit. The only contrary argument being: Why jeopardize his employers' considerable investment? Isn't he more valuable alive, the better to continue his work?

   By the time he convinces himself and remembers the woman, he can already hear the front door. He returns to find the room empty; out front the sound of her car, starting up and peeling away.

   Good thing he already memorized the license plate.

   Some things, you're trained not to forget.

  
**

  
   Faith moves like greased lightning. She's at the demon's side before he can keel over, Willow right behind her as the Slayer gently lowers him to the floor.

   "Oh," Lorne mutters weakly. A thin trickle of blood oozes over his lips as he stares at the rug. "That's never coming out."

   "I'll get him some water." Willow rummages in the travel pack, looking more than a little green herself. "Don't try to talk --"

   "All respect, big guy." Faith tries to crack a smile, downplay the inevitable fatalism. "But if you haven't got long for this world -- knock on wood -- I want you spilling your guts while you still can."

   "Pshaw." The demon waves away their concern, hand falling limply to his chest. His eyeballs flutter unfocused in their sockets behind half-shut lids. "That's what happens when you go from top shelf to bathtub hooch. Just say no, kids..."

   "I did the dance." Faith doesn't bother to hid her growing impatience. "I sang. Now I want my supper."

   "Oh, child." Tears leak from the demon's bloodshot eyes. "Don't make me go there. You don't want to go there..."

   "I came here to find Angel." It's a losing struggle to keep the lid on her ever-increasing agitation. "Tell me I'm gonna die in seven days, Jesus, say _something_! At least give me a chance --"

   "Please."

   Faith grinds to a halt at the weak whisper.

   "I'm done now." Lorne's repetition is even more lacking in energy than the first, but no less naked in its supplication. "I wasn't there for the big battle. All I can tell you...is what happened before."

   And for what seems like hours, they listen. It's a noble tale, of those who thought they could change the system from the inside. Give evil a taste of its own medicine. And the inevitable fall; the corruption, and betrayal.

   "Right said Fred." Lorne chuckles and gratefully accepts a sip of water, pausing as Willow dabs blood from his lips. "She really was the best of us. Well, her and Cordy. And that's another story..."

   "Stay focused." Faith can feel her heart twist further at the look on his face. Whatever happened to Cordelia, she's just as sure she doesn't want to hear it. "What happened?"

   "Listen!" Lorne's eyes are glazed over, burning with fever. "You have to know. Last night? The Hyperion wasn't the only house that got brought down."

   "No time for riddles --"

   "And the other one," Lorne rushes on, "didn't even get a quarter inch on page twelve. First time we made the front page, can you believe it --" He breaks off, coughing, as Willow props him up.

   "This other house." Faith leans in close, holding him erect with the power of her stare. "It got a name?"

   "Infamous." The demon's chuckle is dryer than a Bond martini. "The same name that made you tell us to go pound sand. When Fred was dying..."

   Faith regards him, stone-faced.

   "Anyone sane stays as far away from Wolfram and Hart as possible." Lorne's eyes flutter shut. "You don't want to go there..."

   Willow reaches out, her hand hovering over his mouth.

   "He's still breathing," the witch reports. "Super shallow. I can help him sleep it off, heal faster --"

   "Stay with him." Faith stands up, grabbing her pack from the couch. Willow looks up in surprise.

   "Where are you going?"

   Faith exhales noisily. "Take a wild guess."

   "Not without me you're not." Willow extricates herself from Lorne as gently as possible, given her haste. "If we're going up against the guys who took out Team Angel, we need to stick together --"

   "And leave him by himself?" Faith hates herself for the bitterness, but right now it can't be helped one bit. "Mighty white of ya."

   "You were going to do the same thing!"

   "You're not coming with me." The Slayer's pronouncement brooks no argument.

   "Fine." Willow throws up her hands. "I'll tune in from here --"

   "The hell you will!" Faith snarls. "I don't care how much of a tactical advantage it is, right now I'm not comfortable with _anyone_ hanging out in my head. Now discussion's over, and I'm going to Wolfram and frickin' Hart!"

   "That won't be necessary."

   Faith whirls to find a bland man in a suit, regarding them with an equally bland expression.

   "That is, if I'm addressing...the Slayer?"

  
**

  
   The stings and scrapes are nothing. He should be so lucky, to come out every time in such good shape. What's been damaged is his calm; nerves jangled every which way, unable to keep from replaying every moment of the horrifically unequal fight. Whoever that woman was, her experience puts his to shame.

   The only reason it takes nearly half an hour to find her identity is the initial setup required to safely access DMV records without leaving a trail. Again, posing as a federal agent could open all these doors and more in a microsecond. But the field work is invaluable. Nothing like the real thing to keep you on your toes.

   As he hits PRINT, his smile is one of genuine satisfaction. Now to find this Kate Lockley. Squeeze her for intel on all the players. Maybe pick up a few field tips.

   As to what comes next?

   For once, he hasn't got a clue.

  
**

  
   Faith regards the impeccably dressed newcomer, ignoring her racing heart and heavy breath. Everything about him is drab from head to toe, the ultimate in nondescript appearance, utterly unremarkable in every way. Take away the suit and there'd be nothing left. In his case, clothes really do make the man.

   "And you'd be?"

   "The firm's latest representative -- and merely a messenger, I assure you." The interloper holds up both hands at Willow's glare, offering a respectful nod.

   Willow moves forward to stand at the Slayer's side. "If you touch him --"

   "Oh!" The suit peers around them, eyebrows rising at the sight of Lorne passed out on the floor. A disdainful chuckle escapes his tightly pursed lips like a dog's whistle. "I assure you, my business is strictly with your female friend."

   "The friend has a name." Faith doesn't budge as she stares the man down, eyes narrowing at his air of slick civility. "What's your business?"

   "Only to deliver, and to just as quickly and gratefully depart. Assuming you'll let me." A flicker of hesitation surfaces in his otherwise placid gaze, disappearing almost before it registers on the Slayer's radar.

   "In the wake of the firm's...restructuring, I have matters of actual importance to attend to and would just as soon leave you to your pitiful squabbles. That one --" He indicates Lorne, now curled up on one side, his back to the room's occupants. "Wasn't worth the cash it took to keep his bar stocked."

   Faith resists rising to the bait. "You're not here for him."

   "Absolutely not." The representative stands straighter, hands at his sides.

   "Then shut up about him." The Slayer reaches behind, pulling out her sword. She takes her time about it, making more noise than necessary, watching the suit's face for the slightest flinch.

   It's a baby. Still, he doesn't disappoint.

   "So," Faith drawls, stringing it out to a second syllable. "Whaddya got?"

   "Actually --" The rep looks apprehensive, but doesn't back down. "Not I myself, but a third party. A Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, whose will named you as --"

   "Wes?" Faith goes blank for an instant. She blinks and swallows as a fine, red mist begins to settle over the room.

   "-- his sole beneficiary."

   "Will?" Her voice sounds hollow in her ears.

   "Yeah -- oh." Willow's hand is over her mouth. "Oh, Wesley..."

   "His personal library, less such materials as were the rightful property of Wolfram and Hart, to be found at his apartment. One motorcycle and one shotgun, I believe in a storage locker opened by this key --" The rep produces something shiny, displaying it briefly before tossing it her way. The Slayer lets out an involuntary hiss, but the metal fails to burn.

   "And this envelope, found in his safe deposit box."

   Faith accepts the sealed parchment with a cool stare. "That it?"

   "Mercenary, aren't we?" The rep smiles and straightens his tie. "Given Mr. Wyndham-Pryce's considerable contributions, the senior partners have opted to relieve you of responsibility regarding his lease and deposit, as well as any additional encumbrances accrued at the time of his passing."

   Faith's eyebrow trends skyward. "Which means what in non-lawyerese?"

   "We'll pay off his apartment." For the first time the rep sounds impatient, catching himself before he can come across overly snotty. "And any other outstanding debts. It's the least we can do for his..._invaluable_ service."

   Faith knows better than to respond. She's about to open the envelope when the witch's hand falls upon her own.

   "Fred opened something." Willow sounds a little too casual.

   Faith remembers now, with dawning realization. "And it killed her."

   "Ladies, be reasonable." The rep shifts from one foot to the other. "I've done my duty. Now before I _have_ to, I'd like --"

   "Quiet," Faith orders, without looking his way. "Whaddya think?"

   "Hidden shrink-wrap license?" Willow isn't smiling. "Never trust a lawyer."

   "If we wanted you dead," the rep interjects, "we would have more than ample opportunity, believe me --"

   "But you don't."

   The representative blinks at Faith's interruption. "Pardon?"

   "Think you're hot crap on toast." Faith finally looks back at her mark. "I know how the game works when it comes to tearing down the champions. You don't want the heroes dead, you don't want 'em _wishing_ they were dead. Even if it's the next best thing." She contemplates the tip of her sword, studying the blur of his face beyond. "You want 'em wishin' everyone else was."

   "The senior partners do not see fit to explain their whys and wherefores. Even to their earthly representatives." The suit seems cool as a cucumber, but Faith can sense the crackhead underneath, sweating bullets. "Only what they wish done --"

   "And who to do it to," Willow finishes, both arms folded over her chest.

   "Whom." The suit's smile is spread thin.

   "So apart from my shitty grammar." Faith sidles closer, aiming the sword directly at his throat. "Would you say I've got the gist of it?"

   The rep's eyes never leave her weapon. "Admirably."

   She has to credit him. He only flinches the tiniest bit when her left hand lashes out and buries her hidden knife in the wall, right next to his face. Big blades make a great distraction.

   "Well, I can tell you that plan's working out just super. Wishing everyone else was dead. 'Cause I'm already makin' a list." Willow starts to say something. Faith continues, overriding rough shod. "And you're first on the menu. So if I were you?"

   She leans in, pulling the knife free, letting it linger close to his now-twitching eyeball.

   "I'd get out of my face."

   "I--" The rep gives the barest nod. "Immediately."

   She steps away, both blades at the ready. But there's no need, as he indeed beats a dignified but semi-hasty retreat, practically slamming the door behind.

   She looks back at the couch, where Lorne hasn't budged. Willow has both arms wrapped around her chest like she's freezing.

   "Sorry," the witch mumbles, embarrassed. "Brings back memories."

   "Sorry," Faith repeats dully. She stands there, until another thought occurs. "I miss that knife."

   Willow's hand finds hers. "I know."

  
**

  
   "Lockley."

   "In the flesh. Uh, speaking of which --"

   "Get your drippy, stinking ass off my carpet."

   "Uh, yes sir."

   "And what did I tell you about --"

   "Sorry si-- Sorry! So sorry, yes --"

   "So this bloodsack is snooping around the Senator's old digs."

   "Yessi--"

   "And gets rescued by some random FBI guy."

   "Now that you mention, it does seem --"

   "On the very same day the number two Slayer and her whore of a witch blow into town! And I'm supposed to believe this is _coincidence_?"

   "Please, sir -- if you're going to kill me, I'd appreciate a quick death..."

   "You putting me on a schedule?"

   "Take all the time you want, by all means. I'll just, um...drip over here."

   "Who the hell do these puffed-up bosses think they are, anyway? Run off with their tails between their legs, and who's left to clean up behind? The little guy, that's who!"

   "You're plenty big for me, boss."

   "I just want the rest of us to get a fair shake for once. Time we got a piece of all this action."

   "I understand."

   "Go get patched up. And double the bounty on that thrice-damned vampire with a soul. Don't try taking the witch on -- anyone who shut down a Hellmouth is out of your league. But if you see the Slayer, put a tail on her. Find out how long they plan to stick around and make life hell for us bad guys."

   "You got it, chief."

   "And this new human. The fed." Kazarkh stares into the depths of the snowglobe.

   "Yes?"

   His claws contract into a fist, shattering the glass; watching its contents drain onto the floor like a cracked egg.

   "Obviously, he's part of the problem."

  
**

  
   Faith surveys the scene with her usual profound skepticism. "You sure about this?"

   "Like you always say?" Willow dusts off her hands, declining the Slayer's offer of assistance as she unfolds herself and stands. "Sure as I can be."

   "Thought you were just puttin' a shield around him." Faith doesn't miss the wobbly limbs, the lightly cocked left eye. "Whatever it was took a lot out of ya."

   "Yes." Willow bends over, taking a few breaths before straightening, quickly tying back her hair. Faith's ready to force the issue when the redhead continues, nearly stumbling over her words for their quickness.

   "I did some diagnostic work. Quick fixup, nothing major -- mostly accelerated malnutrition. That Brachen sweat is some nasty stuff." Willow finally meets her gaze again, faltering before lifting her chin the barest fraction. "And I got the address for Wesley's apartment."

   "Good." Faith leaves it at that.

   "He started renting it the last few months at Wolfram and Hart." Willow's tone softens. "Lorne said he got tired of sleeping at the office."

   Faith sharpens her gaze. "He say anything about me?"

   "I didn't want to push it." Willow's normally vibrant face is a mask. "His visions, or whatever you want to call them -- he doesn't access them like you and I do, with our memories. It's a direct transmission from the powers that be."

   "Be a pain in my balls," Faith mumbles.

   "I'm just saying," Willow says, softer. "They're buried too deep. It's not like I could beat it out of him. Even torture."

   "Did I say --" Faith swallows the urge to seeth. "Never mind. Let's hit it."

   She hoists up the pack, trying to take comfort in the weight of the sword across her shoulders. If only she had the damn Scythe. Or at least her old knife.

   "Don't worry." Willow smiles, holding out her hand. "It won't take long."

   "How you --"

   Faith looks around as their fingers meet and the room changes; the walls becoming less dilapidated, wallpaper no longer quite so musty and peeling. Outside a single window the sun hangs high in the sky, dull and cold.

   "-- figure."

   "Shorter distances are easier." Willow sounds just shy of smug before lapsing back into serious. "Plus Lorne had a pretty good picture in his head. They had Chinese here a few times. Good Chinese. No MSG."

   "Bully for them." Faith slowly turns, taking in their new surroundings. A lone bookshelf bearing a few paltry tomes stands next to a single-size bed, across whose bloody mattress are scattered a handful more of half-open volumes. The table by the bedside holds a bottle of premium scotch, nearly two-thirds gone.

   "This must be the place." Faith gives a weary nod. "See what you can find. I'll check the other rooms."

   Easier done than said, as the others turn out to be singular: A dusty, almost empty chamber with no windows, holding only a single chair in the center, an overturned and empty waterglass on the floor beside. Faith surveys the spartan near-tomb with a tightening sensation in her throat, a growing feeling of quiet dread.

   She returns to find Willow seated at the table, arranging books into neat stacks.

   "Couple assorted magical items. Nothing big, they can fit in the pack no problem." The redhead glances over with a nervous attempt at a smile. "These rags look like they were used for bandages, and the blood is -- powerful. I'd like to take them for analysis."

   Faith grunts.

   "I know we can't take all the books --"

   "Try none." It's not quite a snap, but Faith turns away regardless, disguising it as further investigation of the blank and barren walls. When no response is forthcoming, she turns back with a sigh.

   "You know it's just gonna slow us down too much lugging a library around. And we don't have the space." She manages a smile. "Thought you knew all this stuff already."

   Willow looks back, a storm of conflict brewing in her eyes.

   Before Faith can speak, the witch plunges both hands _inside_ the stacks of parchment and leather. Arcane symbols flicker and flow up her arms, through her veins and into her face as her head snaps back, lips parting in a grimace resembling something like ecstasy. The Slayer finds herself gaping, dumbfounded, as the words fade and Willow seems to return to earth.

   The redhead opens sea-black eyes that quickly fade once more to troubled green, returning her stare head-on.

   "I do now."

  
**

  
   He doesn't realize it's almost sundown until he glances out the window, drawn by the sound of a trashcan being attacked. Or used as a weapon. He hadn't intended to devote lo these many hours to research, but Lockley's history proved more complicated -- and fascinating -- than discerning her current whereabouts. That part was tragically simple once he went for the yellow pages. However she'd spent her time in between the murder of her father and opening the doors of her own PI firm was anyone's guess, one thing is absolute and certain: She has information David wants.

   Now how to get it?

   That _is_ the question.

   The police scanner remains silent of reports regarding psychotic fugitive brunettes. Of course, a chick like this hasn't stayed off the radar being stupid. Not to mention she's got someone covering her tracks who can disappear, in the blink of an --

   That way lies madness. Deal with the facts.

   His goal while in the city should be relocating his primary targets -- hopefully, before they decide to skip town again. Preliminary investigation shows an interesting connection in the identity of the arresting officer who took Faith's confession. Depending how much she knows about the Slayer and her powers, Lockley might jump at the chance to track down a multiple murderer who broke out of prison during the weirdest riots ever to sweep the streets. Or she might clam up. Possibly impale him with something.

   However, he hasn't spent the last few hours simply surfing. The alert from the GPS tracker on Lockley's car goes off right as he's looking out at the darkening sky, and David snatches up the handful of spare clips, stuffing ammo into his pockets along with the web-browsing telephone he picked up for a song. The previous owner, a flamboyant middleman trafficking in what passed for heroin, had been more than happy to relinquish it when his strange new customer demonstrated that his product was cut well beyond perceived profit margins.

   Whether or not he's ever been in a war, sometimes he has no idea how he keeps it together.

   As expected, the problem isn't the tailing her, but the parking. He eventually convinces the nearby band of street urchins -- via a considerable bribe, for those so few in years -- to protect his vehicle until his return instead of themselves reducing it to scrap. As he approaches the doors of the nightclub he calculates the remaining cash in his pockets, estimating how much he can leave with by the time he's done.

   "Cover charge is ten." The thing standing just inside the front door sounds more bored than hostile as it stamps his hand. David draws it back without a shudder, surreptitiously wiping away mucous. "No fighting, no dealing, no suckjobs on the premises. Enjoy the band."

   "Thanks."

   David's mumble is lost in the beat of the bass, the roar of the dance floor. As his vision begins to adjust, he's already scanning the crowd for any sign of his quarry. Kate Lockley is nowhere to be seen, and he finds himself pressed against the bar to avoid the enthusiastic shoving currently taking place around the dancers.

   "You need to buy a drink."

   He turns to the speaker, unsure if his ears heard right. "I paid the cover --"

   "You misunderstand." And now David recognizes both face and voice as the one whose guts he blew all over the floor a few hours ago, wearing an expression wracked with pain, both experienced and promised.

   Before he can draw his weapon a dead man's hand has caught his wrist, pinning it to the bar.

   "I mean you need to buy _me_ a drink." The man grins, morphing into half-beast. "It's the least you can do. And the last."

   "That was an accident."

   David watches anger likewise morph to surprise, then disbelief.

   "Quite the accident." Cold fingers stroke the center of his palm. Anyone watching might think the pale, handsome fellow -- no doubt a favorite senatorial page -- was trying to seduce him.

   "I mean it." David keeps his words low and level. "I'm not here to make trouble. I want the same thing you do."

   "Bloody Marys and moonlit walks on the beach?"

   "The Slayer."

   This time, the surprise is great enough the vamp slips out of game face.

   "Dead or alive?"

   "Unfortunately for you, the latter." David uses his free hand to smooth the wrinkles in his jacket, pointedly ignoring the gun now visible inside. "But I can guarantee that no matter what prison they decide to throw her in, she will no longer be a threat to your community."

   The vamp curls its upper lip, radiating skepticism. "And you?"

   "Gone like the wind." David crosses mental fingers, sending up another prayer. "Like I was never here."

   The man's eyes narrow as he transforms once more to animal.

   "Not interested." David lets out a gasp as it gives his hand a painful twist.

   It leans in close, baring its teeth.

   "'Cause you were never here."

  
**

This entry was originally posted at <http://frogfarm.dreamwidth.org/118552.html>. Speak your piece there using OpenID or whatever.

_   
**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After" (Act 2)**   
_


	4. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After" (Act 3)

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
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_   
**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After" (Act 3)**   
_

>   
> _It is better to be trusted than to be loved._  
> \- David McKay

**(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/118427.html#cutid1) **)**  
**(** [Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/119485.html) **)**  
**(** [Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/120319.html) **)**

  


   With nowhere to bend the pressure is beyond pain, beyond excruciating. David's horrified, yet seeming rational mind immediately discards the notion of reaching into his attacker's coat and fishhooking the partially healed chest wound, however non-sucking it might be.

   "The --" He swallows as the vampire sniffs his neck. "The woman who...made her point. With your partner."

   "What about her?" For someone who doesn't need to breath, this guy's near panting. His tongue creeps out to lap the sweat from David's flesh, nearly pale as his own. "You gonna make me an offer? You got nothing to bargain with, _meat_."

   "I don't need to give her over." David steels himself. "Not when she's standing right behind you."

   The vampire's eyes stare him down, cat-slit yellow.

   As they flinch away, his left hand moves.

   The scream that rips through the air puts even the creature's prior disembowelment to shame, cutting effortlessly through the music and bringing all traffic to a stop. David's bloody fingers dig in his waistband, closing on the grip of the pistol, the memory of aqua, vitrae and sclera hot on the tip of his thumb as the vampire flails and emits wordless howls, the black hole of its eye socket gushing blood. Its grip on his other hand never falters, his wrist now screaming almost as loudly, and as he pulls his gun the screams come to a choking halt.

   He's already expecting what comes next, and he isn't disappointed: Immediate relief of pressure, followed by the vamp throwing back its head and vanishing in a drift of dust. David keeps his finger off-trigger, ignoring the searing pain in his wrist.

   "Thanks."

   "Don't thank me." The springloaded stake retracts into Kate's sleeve as she surveys the dumbstruck crowd. David's filing away a series of better looks at her; the shaggy blonde ponytail, the determined jawline under the slight remaining baby fat.

   "Lockley, are you mental?" A pair of cerulean antenna peek over from behind the bar. "You gave me your word --"

   "I said I'd give you a pass." The blonde leans over, grabbing the bartender and dragging him up, shoving her face into his. "Not the same thing."

   "And I said the same thing to you!" The bartender, now that David gets a good look at him, turns out to be mostly reptilian. Apart from the antenna. "But that was last time!"

   David glances around the room. From the ground floor to the balcony, all eyes are on them. And from their expressions, this crowd's about to get even more ugly.

   "They come for you," the bartender gurgles, "I ain't holdin' 'em off! That ain't my job!"

   Kate releases him, wearing a grimace of distaste so intense David thinks she's about to wipe the floor with the guy. He steps in and gives her a nudge.

   "Retreat first." He nods at the trio of vamps emerging from the crowd, now forming a semi-circle around them. "Introductions later?"

   "Assuming you live that long." True to ex-cop form, Lockley doesn't crack a smile.

   "I hope to _surprise you_ \--"

   David grabs the bottle from the bar, punctuating his last words by smashing it across the face of the vampire now hurtling through the air at his throat.

   After that, things get hazy.

  
   "Yeah, you better run! Miserable punk-ass human!" The bartender's antennae twitch with rage as he leans on the bar to remain standing, shaking his fist after them. "Make sure you bring your Slayer army next time!"

   The remaining vampires skid to a halt, turning to him with incredulous looks.

   "Or...we'll come to you." The bartender picks up his rag, taking a keen interest in the already polished surface that stands between himself and the mob. His antennae droop as he emits a discouraged sigh. "Freakin' humans..."

  
**

  
   She ought to be more than used to it by now. Still, this is the first time they've done the beam-me-up-Scotty routine this many times in one day. As a result, Faith spends an inordinate amount of time checking herself for bodily integrity when they rematerialize in Lorne's derelict digs. Which means it's a few more minutes before she notices the flush of power has faded from Willow's eyes, leaving the witch looking downright ragged.

   "All right?"

   "Fine." Willow's smile is so forced it isn't funny. Not that it would be, regardless. Especially after that stunt earlier. One thing to know about it; quite another to see it first hand. Almost enough to make a person wonder if it wasn't deliberately sending a message.

   "Just don't want you going off the rails." Faith keeps it casual. "If all the jumpin' around is a a problem --"

   "It's not." But the worn and haggard look in those hollow eyes says otherwise.

   "Just say something," Faith admonishes. "Before it is."

   "I will." The redhead sinks onto the couch beside Lorne, covering a tremendous yawn as she inspects his sleeping form.

   "The storage facility. It's not too far." Faith makes an executive decision. "We'll ride."

   "Public transit?" Willow looks over with unfocused eyes and a light smile. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

   Faith snorts, trying to think of a response. She'd forgotten their rental car was on the opposite coast.

   "I don't have cab fare," Willow points out.

   Faith shrugs. "Start walkin'."

   Willow emits a groan. "And me without my comfortable shoes."

  
**

  
   "You're sure this is safe?"

   "Define safe." Kate doesn't turn around as she rummages through the medicine cabinet.

   "Not working in LA?" David peeks through the blinds, trying for a glimpse of the corner under the streetlight. "Not going to bars."

   "My definition wouldn't include standing too close to the windows." A roll of gauze sails through the air to land in David's hands. Lockley has a tiny smile on her face when he looks up. Like he passed some test.

   "They can't get in." David steps back and shrugs off his jacket, gingerly easing the sleeve over his sore arm. "But they could burn the place down."

   "Or shoot through the window." Kate's busy attending to her own battle wounds. More severe than his own, if only due to a collision in the alley with a dumpster. "Most of them are depressingly traditional. It's not like they need to hunt us with stakes."

   "You might have noticed I'm new in town." He goes for a light smile, a mere two on the flirt meter. "Do all private investigators have to worry about this sort of thing, or is it just around here?"

   She glances up with a look of sheer disinterest in whatever he has to offer. David recognizes the look of resignation from the newspaper photos, at her father's funeral.

   "I'm just wondering why you rabbited," he continues. The claw marks in his forearm are shallow but precise, and painful all out of proportion. David studies them while unwrapping the bandage, deliberately avoiding her gaze. "If you knew I was FBI."

   "So you say." The challenge in her voice is evident. "Got ID?"

   "Stolen." The lie trips off his tongue by glib reflex. "Waiting on a replacement, should have it in twenty-four hours. What's the best weapon?"

   "Pardon?" She doesn't sound thrown, but he allows her a moment.

   "Against vampires. What's the best weapon?"

   Her sarcasm is nothing next to the pain. "There's no such thing."

   "Tracer bullets?" David treads carefully, avoiding any hint of jocularity. "Dragon's Breath?"

   That gets her attention. "Those are illegal in this state."

   "Right." He sidles up to the window for another scan of the outside. "Street looks clear, but you know the neighborhood. How soon you think we can get past them?"

   A dryer note enters her voice. "You on a schedule?"

   David looks back with a grin. "Need to make another stop in Chinatown."

   Kate frowns in confusion. "Another?"

  
**

  
   While of course Faith doesn't say it, she's totally expecting at least one minor whine before they get there. But Willow never utters a single peep of complaint as they traverse the mean streets. In fact, the witch remains silent all the way, even now that they're inside the security gate, standing under a halo of halogen light. The steel door stares back at them, its grey and peeling paint only increasing the resemblance to a prison cell.

   _Like we need a key,_ Faith thinks. Willow just stands there, looking at the door like she can see right through, and who's to say she can't if she put a moment's thought to it?

   Who the hell is she fooling, trying to protect _this?_

   She pushes down the anxiety. "Anything inside?"

   "Assume you mean living." Willow's distracted tone betrays her mental absence. "Or alive undead."

   "Them too." Forcing of the calm is never good. Faith can already feel her tattered self-control fraying at the edges, leaking into her veins, spilling over and out of her mouth. "Anything?"

   Willow shakes her head. "Want me to open it?"

   "We got a key." The chill deep in her belly puts the lie to the warm summer air as Faith steps up to the door. Her normally mad-skilled fingers are atypically fumbly, flakes of rust crumbling away at the pop of the lock.

   Despite Willow's assurances, the Slayer knows her grip on her sword is a little tighter than necessary. Also sweaty. She's far too ready to stab anything that moves. But the door swings open at her push, revealing an interior inhabited only by the mechanical.

   "My God."

   "What is it?" For a moment, Willow does the not quite panic.

   "Holy crap." Faith actually finds herself smiling as she pulls off the tarp. "It's a Big Dog."

   Willow squints at the shadowy silhouette. "I take it that's a kind of road hog?"

   "Naw, it's a dark beer." Faith runs her gaze over the bike, hand unconsciously following its lines and curves. "Can you believe this?"

   "Wesley? After the last time we met, I have to admit it wouldn't have surprised me." The frown of recollection turns briefly upside down. "All that stubble, I could _totally_ see him in riding leather and -- what?"

   "Nothing." Faith wears a half-smile as she returns her attention to the bike.

   "I'm allowed to acknowledge the sexiness potential of some men. In a purely theoretical sense." Willow isn't quite harrumphing, but it's close. "Anything in those?"

   "Let's find out." Faith unbuckles the closer of the two saddlebags, peering inside. "Nice duds."

   "Is that real leather?" Willow's conflicted expression is almost enough to make Faith do a quick change then and there. Closest she's felt to normal since the shiznit started to go down.

   She frowns, probing deeper. "Somethin' underneath."

   "What is it?" Willow tries to peer over her shoulder.

   "Looks like I should be askin' you." Faith gestures at the open bag. "Check it out."

   Willow peers inside and makes an interesting, or interested sound.

   "Looks pretty hi tech." Faith knows it's hardly necessary, but feels like she ought to say something. Willow hoists out the odd-looking gun, finger well clear of the trigger.

   "Quality work." The redhead's mental workings are evident as she inspects the strange device. "Definitely better than Warren's..."

   Faith watches the other woman's face closely, but no other emotion appears imminent.

   "I think it's meant to absorb energy. Not discharge it." Willow sounds reasonably decisive. "I'd want to take it apart before I could say anything else."

   "Later." As Faith opens the opposite saddlebag. a wicked gleam enters her eye. "Now _this_ I know how to handle."

   Willow tightens her protective posture around the futuristic weapon, casting a mistrustful glance at the length of polished wood and dull, oiled metal.

   "I don't like guns."

   "I know." Faith avoids raising the obvious incongruity, gazing down at her new toy.

   "Damn. I remember when we took down Angelus with this thing." A grim smile rises to her lips. "Well. Him with this and me with a needle full of junk."

   "I remember." Willow has that troubled look again. Grey and pinched, like she's finally come to her senses. Faith has enough presence of mind to check the chamber for a round before stowing the shotgun away once more.

   As she rises to her feet, her eye is drawn to the envelope sticking out of her jacket. Faith pulls it from her pocket, turning it over in her hands. Heavy paper, wax seal, the whole nine yards. Pricey. Wyndam-Prycey.

   Before Willow can stop her, she rips it open.

   But there's no dark magic inside. Just a brief note, in elegant script:

  


> _Faith:_
> 
> A part of me is relieved. I might have wanted to hug.
> 
> [a sizable inkstain, smeared and faded at the edge.]
> 
> I have said that I do not intend to die tonight. But if intent goes awry, let these final gestures be some small consolation.
> 
> Let Giles be the one to inform my father. A petty pound of flesh, that you need not concern yourself with.
> 
> To you, and yours: "Pax vobiscum."
> 
> In the certainty you will find these riding leathers more suitable than I did
> 
> Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

   "Faith?"

   Her pulse thuds dull in her ears as she hands the note over. As Willow carefully accepts it, cradling the hi-tech gun in one arm, Faith turns away to breathe and stare at the walls.

   "Guess it's just sinking in. Even if Angel -- or anyone else on his crew -- made it out alive..." She swallows, imagining Willow's eyes on her. "Wes really is...dead."

   The witch offers no reply.

   "Gone."

   "Yeah." Willow's definitely putting on Brave Little Toaster face. Faith would be flattered if she weren't so stressed out.

   "So --" She forces it all down, turning back with the resolve they're going to need. "I know I said we should travel light, but this place is cheap. And we got no idea how long we're gonna be in town. I say we hold onto it. Keep all this here."

   "Sure." Amazing how Will's verbal skills, or her own paranoia, can invest a single syllable with an entire sentence worth of meaning. In this case, something like _And you couldn't have decided this before you got all impatient and forced me to go evil and suck Wesley's books dry?_ Whatever the exact wording, Faith's pretty sure it involves some measure of blame for herself.

   "Wanna bring the phaser?" She pastes on a smile, offering up an olive branch as best she knows how. "Give that big brain a workout?"

   "I'll take that."

   In the doorway stands a woman. In dress and outward demeanor she almost resembles the Slayer; her bearing unmistakably that of a seasoned warrior, the plain jeans and denim jacket further contributing to the image. But while her additional years are few, the rough-cut, shoulder-length strawberry hair only a slightly duller shade than Willow's own, there is a hardness in her eyes all too familiar to Faith from prison. The kind that comes from being repeatedly broken.

   "Justine Cooper." The woman nods at the weapon in Willow's hands. "That's mine."

  
**

  
   "You're sure about this guy?"

   "The more you ask, the less I'm sure." Kate hits the button for the power window, raising it over his protests. "Now sit still and wait. It's a valuable skill if you haven't acquired it by this point in your life."

   "Fine." David shifts his weight, mindful of the weight of the pistol in his waistband. He does this when he only has one gun, constantly changing up his conceal spot. Forces him to remember where it is at all times.

   "So while we're waiting." Kate gazes out the window at the stream of gaudy colored trucks passing by. "Can you tell me anything about your case?"

   "Which one?" David smiles with practiced ease. Always behave like someone's watching.

   "Busy man," she remarks.

   "I like to keep busy."

   "I'm just curious." She turns back to him looking more grim than ever. "If your business here is official."

   "Generally, I don't discuss my work."

   "Professional courtesy --"

   "A PI doesn't cut it with my superiors." Now his smile is gentle, to show no personal offense. "I thought we were waiting."

   "And while we wait," she enunciates clearly, "I'm asking questions."

   "And I'm answering what I can."

   "You grilled me." Kate turns in her seat to face him, thunderclouds of anger written on her brow. "About vampires. And not like some schoolkid fresh off the bus."

   "Thanks for that." David tips his head. "Actually, that business -- I admit I'm a bit new at."

   "So you say." The look on her face is plain as day. Somewhere along the way, his line of building trust turned into a big fat fail.

   "There may be one way you can help me." Slowly, David produces the mug shot from inside his coat. Kate's expression never flickers as he hands it over.

   "Lehane." The detective studies the photograph without a flicker of recognition. "Name sounds fake."

   "May be." David shrugs.

   "You want her?"

   "What she is." David doesn't smile. "I want the Slayer."

   "You wouldn't be the first." She snorts, handing the photo back. "You know she's wanted for murder?"

   "I do." Even odds Lockley doesn't know the game has changed, that now there's more than one Slayer. Something over two thousand, at last guess. "Escaped from prison during a surprise eclipse. Quite a trick."

   Kate's eyes bore into his. "What would you say if I told you that eclipse was an attempt to bring about the apocalypse?"

   David opens his mouth, then stops and shakes his head, a humorless chuckle escaping. "I wouldn't be at all surprised."

   "It was Rodney King all over again. Only worse." Kate isn't looking at him any more. "Los Angeles had bigger things to worry about than one escaped prisoner. Every conspiracy nut with a shortwave was convinced the CDC was ready to swoop in and round them up for slaughter."

   David doesn't reply.

   "Funny thing." Kate's face says not so much. "They had it half right."

   "No more state of emergency," David points out. "By the way, I'm David."

   She snorts. "Sure you are."

   He shrugs, looking over her shoulder. "Here they come."

  
**

  
   _Whaddya know_, Faith thinks. _Another psycho redhead._

   "I'm not sure what this is." Willow indicates the futuristic weapon in her grasp. "But I can tell it's dangerous."

   "Damn straight." Justine's relaxed posture remains at odds with the rest of her, poised and ready to strike. "It's a Mutari generator."

   Willow's confusion is evident. "A mutant what?"

   "Nice to know you don't know everything," Faith deadpans. Willow gives her a mild look of reproach, but remains silent.

   "Nothing in his will about it, was there?" Justine doesn't wait for a response. "I've got no clue either. But he didn't want Wolfram and Hart to know. Said I should hang on to it. Use it to keep Illyria contained."

   "The thing that killed Fred." Willow's getting that lip of resolve again, the one that says World Be Damned. A frown creases her brow. "Didn't Lorne say that only worked the one time?"

   "Call it a bluff." Justine shrugs. "Better than nothing."

   "Yes, because bluffing makes so much sense when you're dealing with a tyrannical, sociopathic ex-god." Willow shakes her head in disbelief.

   "Some of us don't have much in the way of options." Justine sighs, the brittleness of her anger seeming to dissolve away. "All I know is she showed up this morning outside my place --"

   "Illyria?" Willow asks.

   "-- and told me Wesley was dead." Justine glares as if daring her to interrupt again. Faith saves her the risk.

   "What else?"

   "Nothing." Justine looks exhausted, on the verge of collapse. "You don't think I tried? Screamed, I beat it out of her -- tried to. You don't know." She swallows, shaking her head. "You don't know what she's like."

   Faith gives Willow a sidelong glance. "Sounds like someone I want to meet."

   "Too late," Justine says. "She already skipped town."

   "What?" This from an abruptly outraged Willow.

   "I tried to follow her. But you don't follow a god." A small smile makes its way onto Justine's face. "Even a fallen one."

   Faith adopts a more sympathetic tone. "So what about you?"

   "What about me?" Another shrug. "I'm here to pick up a worthless present from a guy who once kept me locked in a closet with a bucket for company."

   "Oh." Willow seems about to say something more.

   "I'm a little bit older, a little bit wiser, and a lot more bitter. Arguably less psychotic." Justine's lack of anything resembling humor seems appropriate. "So I'm trying to take his last words to heart."

   Faith raises an eyebrow. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

   A ghost of a smile. "Find peace."

   Faith is pretty sure that's a walking contradiction with this chick. Gotta be dead obvious to Will.

   "I still fight." Again the smile, as if Justine knows just how apparent this is. "Don't think I'll ever give that up."

   "Some of us," Faith acknowledges. "It's in our blood."

   "I know you're a Slayer." Justine stands unmoving, hands at her sides. "I'm not going to fight you."

   "Smart move." Faith remains likewise statue-still.

   "I just want to take that thing and leave," Justine continues, with maddening calm. "I don't want any trouble."

   "I don't like that idea." Willow grips the weapon tighter. "I -- I don't think just anybody should have this. Not until --"

   "Until you're sure it can't be misused for nefarious purposes?" The new voice is smarmy, male, and all too familiar.

   "Frakkin' hell!" Faith recognizes the bastard from Wolfram and Hart before she turns round. "Is the whole damn city tailin' us or what?"

   "While Mr. Wyndam-Pryce did technically construct the device as a work for hire project, the senior partners have decided they have no further use for it." The rep's smile is nastier than those he previously dared. "In other words -- fight it out amongst yourselves. Or let Miss Cooper have her toy, it makes no difference to us. May I go?"

   "You still here?" Faith doesn't spare him a second glance. "Will."

   Willow looks visibly suspicious. "Yes?"

   "Eighty-six this bum."

   "Hardly necessary." The rep speedily makes his way to the door before turning again, irritation writ large on his otherwise emotionless features. Faith has to admire his plucky, if suicidal nature.

   "Do you have any idea how far behind we are on reconstruction? Your friend's courageous last stand cost us billions. And that's just the raw financials."

   "My heart bleeds." Faith doesn't bother trying for sarcasm or overt threat. Just a monotone as she stares him down. "How about yours?"

   "Threaten and bluster all you like," the rep sniffs. "Frankly, the senior partners are giving serious consideration to shutting down this branch of the firm altogether."

   "I'm sure we'll all be cryin' in our beers." Faith hardens her gaze. "Now get out while I let you get out."

   The rep almost seems ready to continue their verbal duel until he remembers Willow, now leveling her own glare. Justine is likewise focused upon him, and their combined enmity is enough to convince him to depart with even greater alacrity than before.

   "Well," Faith drawls. "Unless that was a put up job --"

   "I don't work for them." The dark circles around Justine's eyes are more apparent, but she offers a grim smile. "I think they're angry."

   "They got hurt." Willow looks thoughtful, the weapon in her hands forgotten.

   "Hell yeah." Faith feels a surge of excitement. "Lorne said they really took it to those bastards. Might be nothing in the frickin' grand scheme of things, but it did _something_."

   "Darn tootin'." Willow nods. "All those big clients hire Wolfram and Hart to keep things quiet. Now they're probably stuck cleaning up _their_ mess. Their -- them being -- well, you know."

   "Yeah." Faith takes a long hard look at the weird gun in Willow's hands. To her eyes, no more than an expensive science project. "Is that thing really dead?"

   "I think so." Willow prods at one of the electrical connections. "Looks like it was only made to be fired once. You might be able to reverse it. In theory."

   "He didn't think so," Justine offers. "Said he would have destroyed it if he thought there was a chance of getting her power back."

   Willow looks dubious, but accepts this. "So yeah. Far as I can tell, it's inert. A big ol' nert."

   Faith shrugs. "Let her have it."

   Justine steals a glance at her.

   "Go on." The Slayer nods. "With our blessing."

   Willow hands it over with a frown. "You probably don't want to be walking around town like that."

   "I'll take the sewers." For the first time, Justine appears uncomfortable. "I promised her I'd try to track down any survivors. Illyria."

   Willow is incredulous. "Why would she care?"

   "Who cares?" Justine tucks the gun inside her coat. "Thanks."

   "Wait."

   The other redhead turns back, suspicious.

   "Lorne." Willow sounds hopeful. "You could take care of him."

   Justine shakes her head. "I scare him."

   Faith sighs, staring after the older woman.

   "Red?"

   "Yeah?"

   "There goes someone even more screwed up than we."

  
**

  
   "I do not like dealing with her."

   "No one does, sir." The young girl -- or so she appears -- offers him a fountain pen, _sans_ sympathy. "Sign here."

   The representative from Wolfram and Hart complies, affixing an efficient scribble to the indicated document. "Any word on the new office?"

   "The word from below is cubicles, sir."

   "Please don't." The representative shudders as he returns pen and paper. "Some jokes are simply inappropriate for the workplace."

   "They might be serious." A fractionated shrug mars the perfection of his assistant's features. "They aren't much for humor. Sir."

   "Very little amusement value here." The representative takes a sip of fresh brewed tea, wincing in distaste. "I understand we all need to pitch in and tighten our belts. No more real bone china. But honestly -- paper cups?"

   The assistant acknowledges his pain with a slight incline of the head.

   "I only mean to say," he continues, undaunted. "There used to be some standards."

   "In hiring as well, sir."

   The suspicious glance reveals nothing from his aide, who continues to look innocent.

   "I assume you refer to the traitorous Eve, who chose to ally herself with young McDonald." The rep suppresses a delicate shudder. "And my own predecessor. Beaten to death, drained of precious bodily fluids --"

   "A fate we all strive to avoid in the new regime." The assistant allows a brittle smile, straightening her stack of papers. "Will there be anything else?"

   He finds himself drumming his fingers on the cheap, flimsy desk, staring around the makeshift office with hatred in his eyes. It wasn't his fault he'd inherited a situation screwed up beyond compare.

   But not beyond repair.

   As long as he remains intact.

   "That ridiculous dinosaur Kazarkh. Still snorting and stomping his way through downtown?"

   "Louder than ever, sir." The aide consults her notes. "As predicted, the mice have grown bold in our absence."

   "And if I read these reports aright -- blaming his losses on this new player. A federal agent."

   "Yes, sir."

   "Then there's only one option." The rep takes another sip. grimacing at his tea gone cold. "We need to remove him from the board."

   The aide snaps her heels and straightens her back. "Shall I send up the executive rickshaw?"

   "Don't mock me, Elise."

   "I wouldn't dream of it, sir."

  
**

  
   "Is this low sodium?"

   "It's high soup." Faith offers the bowl again, only to frown as Lorne looks away. "Which is what you need."

   "My tummy is delicate. The rest of me moreso." Lorne cradles his forehead, shielding his eyes from the room's sole dim lightbulb. "I am an invalid, ill-equipped for such exotic fare."

   "It's chicken noodle. And I've seen this routine a million times. In the prison infirmary." Faith sets the bowl down on the end table, fixing him with her glare. "When someone doesn't want to squeal."

   "Talk? I'd be happy to." The demon is already shivering again as he pulls the blanket up around his chin. "More power to you. If you can name that tune in one and a half syllables, before I start spewing up split pea."

   Willow manages a wan smile. "Don't talk like that, sweet pea."

   "Nonsensical endearments are my mark in trade." Lorne's breathing is raspy, but he doesn't push away the spoon this time. "Get your own gig."

   Willow dabs the sweat from his brow, rising to her feet. "I'm gonna try calling again."

   "Knock yourself out." Faith takes the washcloth, lingering when the witch's fingers close upon her own, returning the squeeze without looking. Easy enough that minor reassurance, that not to offer it never fails to leave her feeling a right prat.

   "Quite the little woman." Lorne's gaze joins hers. "Never would have figured it."

   "Yeah." Faith realizes she's mumbling, clearing her throat. "I mean, who'da thought I'd end up with anyone?"

   "Not you, honey." Lorne sighs. "Her."

   Faith frowns, pulling away the bowl of soup. "Whaddya mean?"

   "I mean the odds of _her_ ending up with anyone, after -- well." Lorne shrugs. "You know."

   "I know." Faith stares him down. "How the hell do you?"

   Lorne looks over at Willow. The witch is quietly engaged in navigating an elaborate voice menu, her patience evaporating with every step.

   "When we first met." Lorne's voice is grim with recollection. "We'd just come back from Pylea. Singing songs of victory, trailing clouds of glory...and walk back into our lovely hotel only to have this cute, despondent little redhead tell Angel that the love of his life just went out saving the world."

   Faith tries to be patient.

   "She was out in the garden." The Pylean forces a smile, sick at heart. "I heard her humming."

   "Why the fuck didn't --" Faith lowers her voice, not looking over at Willow as she leans in, putting herself nose to nose with the demon.

   "Why didn't you tell her what was going down with Tara?" Lorne flinches, but Faith continues, relentless. "Frickin' tell people, so they can _try_ to do somethin' about it. Or what the hell good is your god damn _gift_?"

   "You ought to know better by now." Lorne's eyes are dull as he meets her gaze, head bowed. "It doesn't work that way."

   Faith's still digesting this when Willow's voice breaks through the haze of anger.

   "Dawn! Yes!" The witch perks upright, worry and excitement at war with one another. "What's up? What's going on?"

   "Dawn?" Faith's brow wrinkles. "How come she's answerin' B's phone?"

   "I gave up and called Dawn's -- no!" Willow paces back and forth, ignoring the Slayer. "Yes, one second. You're going too fast, honey. What about Dana --"

   "*_I'm saying I don't know anything!_" Dawn's tinny voice echoes out of the phone, filling the room. Faith suspects Willow of engaging in a spot of magical amplification. "_I'm like a mushroom around here! They keep me in the dark, and they've been sequestered forever in some emergency session and --_" A momentary scuffle. "_Oh crap! Here she comes --_"

   Faith grabs the phone from Willow's hands. "B, what the hell's goin' on? We got a situation here! Angel's AWOL, and Wes is --"

   "_I know._"

   For another moment, Faith feels the world come to a stop; the pulse in her ears like thunder as a hoarse, alien whisper is wrenched from her throat.

   "You _knew?_"

   The near silence of static echoes down the line. Finally, Buffy's voice emerges from the void.

   "_We_ \--" A small swallow of hesitance. "_We need to talk._"

   "Who else?" The void is draining, filling up with something new. "Who else knew? Get them on, I want Will to hear this --"

   "_Why?_" The digitized voice that trickles from the speaker is a pale shadow of everything Faith remembers. In all the years she has known her, Buffy has never sounded so utterly defeated. "_Why can't it just be you and me?_"

   It's almost tempting. But as she grips the phone, Faith realizes anguish can only take you so far. And the cold, slowly growing rage within tells her she's ready to do whatever might be required to end this charade. No more hiding.

   No more lies.

   "Conference call." She addresses Willow, in a tone that will brook no argument. "Make it happen."

   Willow looks back, startled. "I can hack something up --"

   "I mean I changed my mind. Ditch the tech." Faith swallows her fear, standing tall. "It's time for a meeting _of_ the minds."

   "Oh." Willow's surprise becomes thoughtful. "We'll need a gourd."

  
**

  
   "All squared away?"

   "Ready and able." David tosses off a salute sufficiently crisp to pass muster, just relaxed enough to be cocky. As ever, Lockley is not amused.

   "The demon we're after is named Kazarkh. Those vamps in the senator's office fell in with him after she was killed." Kate zips up her jacket, patting down the pistol concealed underneath, assuring herself of its position. "Word on the street is he's mostly reptile. Maybe amphibious."

   "Like a SEAL."

   Kate's eyebrows contract to a point.

   "You know." David feels compelled to clarify. "Navy SEAL?"

   "I know." The detective returns his smile with a glare of death. "What I don't know is why you're still treating this like a game."

   "Because it's fun."

   Apparently, that was the last thing she was expecting.

   "No." Kate frowns, then shakes her head, with growing emphaticism. _Emphaticness?_ "Not for me. And if you think it's fun? You're in the wrong line of work."

   "You're wrong." He shakes his head right back, bestowing on her a look of pity. "If you're not having fun? You're not doing it right."

   Kate's knuckles are white when she turns toward him. David stands quite still.

   "Ever since the sun came back, those bloodsuckers have had a constant night shift stakeout on my office." She nods at the boarded up window. "I'm only an agency on paper. I don't have a federal budget, or a crack team of expert assistants." The barest hint of a shrug, all the more helpless. "It's just me."

   David smiles, cranking reassurance to eleven. "Not tonight."

   "_That's what she said!_"

   The raucous, muffled yell from outside is mere prelude to the mocking rumble that fills the air, the sound of eight cylinders crammed onto two wheels. David looks back to find Lockley with her gun drawn.

   He tries not to sound funny. "What's on the menu?"

   "Somehow?" Kate licks her lips. "I don't think they're starting with vampires."

  
**

This entry was originally posted at <http://frogfarm.dreamwidth.org/120383.html>. Speak your piece there using OpenID or whatever.


	5. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After" (conclusion)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
  
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**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x06: "The Day After" (conclusion)**   
_

>   
> _For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow._  
> \- Ecclesiastes

**(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/118427.html#cutid1) **)**  
**(** [Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/119485.html) **)**  
**(** [Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/120319.html) **)**  
**(** [Act 3](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/121874.html) **)**

  


  
   Reggie's finding it more difficult than usual to keep a lid on his impatience. Always infamous for it around the office, he'd been Senator Bruckner's most ambitious up and comer. A real go-getter who could get things done. Once, he was part of a promising organization that ruled a tidy chunk of the world with impunity. Now he's reduced to pimping for an overgrown lizard, recruiting from the dregs of the underworld.

   At least, he sighed to himself, the remnants of the Hellions could be had for a trunkful of beer. Jasminites were trickier, inclining less toward the mutual filling of one's pockets and more fulfilling their visions of apocalypse.

   "Are you quite done?" He has to shout to make himself heard over the pair of twin V-8's. "And did you _have_ to warn them?"

   The demons look at each other, bursting into guffaws.

   "More fun this way," snickers the burlier one.

   "We're not paying you to have fun." Reggie tries not to make it sound like a challenge. Hellions have a particular problem with that. "We're paying you to kill them."

   "You're not payin' enough to call the shots." The Hellion lowers his goggles and revs the engine, grinning wide enough to expose every pointed, yellowing tooth in his scabby head. "Stay out of our way. Maybe we'll save ya a little somethin' to suck up!"

   Reggie swallows the response that would get him killed, which right now is probably pretty much anything. As he takes a step back, glancing at the enormous window the Hellions are preparing to assault, he spies a metal tube pushing out from between the boards.

   Then an orange and red streak flies directly between the two motorcycles, trailing sparks.

   As the Roman candle hits his chest and he bursts into flames, Reggie's last thought is of his mother, telling him: _You get what you pay for._

   At least he didn't pay cash.

  
**

  
   Last time she witnessed mojo on this scale, it tore a hole in the earth, sealed another between dimensions, and made thousands of girls into Slayers. Least that's what it looks like from here. Hasn't been twenty minutes since they extracted an agreement from Buffy to gather together any other relevant parties. As expected, Xander and Giles complete the roster; Dawn absolved by virtue of her ignorance, already berating herself for having missed critical inconsistencies between reports. No sooner had Faith hung up than Willow set to work, scribbling away at a speed that put her own typing skills to shame, hacking by hand with fierce intensity as the Slayer quietly saw to a feverish Lorne. More than once she glanced over to find Willow gnawing her lip, looking away again before the witch caught her in the act.

   She knows it's been twenty minutes because Lorne has a clock on the wall, which appears accurate despite the garish Motown cuckoo. Still, it feels like she's on the verge of cracking when Willow finally looks up with a nervous smile, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear.

   "Almost ready."

   "Good to go." Faith wants to ask what's going to be involved. She hadn't figured anything more complicated than a virtual joining of hands, maybe some singing of the kumbaya. Except Willow looks about as nervous as the night they brought old Sunnydale down.

   "Hey."

   Willow looks back, startled. Faith tries to sound gentle.

   "Are you chilly with this?"

   Willow gets that smile on her face that says _you so crazy_.

   "That's why I have you. To keep me grounded." The redhead falters, a troubled look in her eyes. "Are _you_ sure?"

   "My idea, wasn't it?" For the umpteenth time, Faith reminds herself not to take out her anythings on her girlfriend. Even if the witch deserves it -- not a good idea with someone who can take out a planet. "You're just lucky there was a _bodega_ round the corner. That mamacita was givin' me ten kinds of stinkeye. Probably thought I was takin' it home for some kinky gourd games."

   "I'm only asking." Willow takes her hand, gentle as can be. "I know how you are, and it's not a bad thing. I'm just saying...I know."

   "Because we did this before," Faith points out. "Came through fine and dandy. Not a scratch on us."

   "It won't be quite the same." Willow consults her notes, maintaining her grip on the Slayer's hand. "That was more of a deep dive. This won't be as much with the soul-baring."

   "But it's virtual reality, right?" As always, Faith has to make a conscious effort not to squeeze too hard. She searches the readhead's face for answers, trying not to sound overly concerned. "Face to face?"

   Willow's smile seems to light up their dingy surroundings, bringing fresh nuance to faded color, illuminating even the darkest corner.

   "Just like the real thing."

   Faith takes a deep breath and stands, ignoring quivery knees. "Okay."

   "Right." The witch looks over at Lorne, who is still laid out on the couch, now propped up on a nest of pillows.

   "I'm placing wards around the building. Like I did with you earlier. Totally standard -- nothing to worry about."

   "You're the expert." Lorne gives her a half-hearted shrug. "Might want to make sure I can call 911 if you go into shock. Or have some kind of transdimensional seizure."

   "Hardly likely." Willow crosses the room to lay the phone in his lap. "But if you have it, you won't need it."

   "Rotsa ruck." The demon sinks back amongst his pillows with a weak smile. "Bring back a tacky souvenir."

   Faith gives him a cheesy thumbs-up, feeling ten kinds of ass for it. That's when Willow hands her the gourd.

   "Go go gourd girl." Willow's smile is tiny but genuine, with a hint of nerves.

   Faith examines the dried shell with a curled lip of skepticism, or distaste. "There better not be a hidden webcam somewhere."

   "Your secret is safe with me." Willow glances over with a grin promising still greater mischief. "Now do a little dance."

   The less said of that, the better. Willow arranges herself in a lotus on the floor, mumbling under her breath, and Faith takes a seat across from her after gratefully discarding the magical maraca.

   "Hold my hand."

   Faith obeys without hesitation. The redhead's fingers grip with surprising strength, words tumbling sharp and staccato from her lips:

  
      _The power of the Slayer and all who wield it.  
      Last to ancient first, we invoke thee.  
      Grant us thy domain and primal wisdom,  
      Accept us for the knowledge that we seek.  
      Let the distance between us be as nothing,  
      Let the hand encompass us. Do thy will._

  
   The witch's free hand draws patterns in the air, fingers sketching ghostly images. Faith can almost see them, little glowing trails shedding faery dust.

  
      _Spiritus: Spirit.  
      Animus: Heart.  
      Sophus: Mind.  
      Manus: The hand.  
      And Fides... Faith._

  
   The room trembles, the already dim light flickering further toward extinguishment.

  
      _We enjoin that we may honor the vessel.  
      Daughter of Sineya,  
      Primeval, first of the ones...  
      Bring light to the darkness,  
      Cast away the blinding shadow._

  
   Faith struggles to keep a lid on her impending queasiness as the room expands, walls vanishing into black.

  
      _Join us._

  
   She has no idea. Not a one of the five W's. Maybe froze sitting up; or maybe she's keeled over, laying there on Lorne's carpet drooling like a post-lobotomy Jack Nicholson. But as of now, for all Faith can tell, the Matrix has her in a very familiar place.

   Buffy looks around with a guilty expression, removing her go-go boots from the table, grimacing at her painfully nineties dress.

   Giles removes his glasses and sets to furious polishing.

   Xander blinks, putting a hand to his patchless face, finding both eyes intact.

   "Wow." Willow cranes her neck, taking in the high domed ceiling and antique wood, the rows upon rows of shelves crammed with ancient books. The witch is wearing a simple green buttoned dress and white underskirt, along with her favorite black boots. "Never thought we'd see this place again."

   "No place like home." Faith stands unmoved, arms folded as she stares down the group sitting at the table. Just like old times.

   Like hell.

   "Well." Xander exhales, looking around at the resurrected library of the original Sunnydale High. "Anyone for donuts?"

  
**

  
   "Nice taser."

   "Thanks." Kate tosses the drained device to one side, stepping over her foe to retrieve the fire extinguisher that had taken him down. Of course the strong arm behind it hadn't hurt.

   "Bit more juice than the standard model." David nods at the fallen demon, its scaly, contorted features blistered to a crisp. "Black market?"

   "Smokey Bear first." Lockley tosses him the extinguisher. "Moral superiority later."

   David doesn't argue, immediately seeing to the flames that managed to spread during the conflict. "Where'd his buddy get to?"

   "Lookin' for me?"

   David's not even halfway through his swing when the Hellion grabs him by the jacket, flinging him and his extinguisher across the room, into the wall. Smoke clouds his eyes as he falls to the floor, wincing at the shards of glass stabbing their way through the thick fabric of his jeans.

   "He _was_ a buddy." The Hellion advances on him, blurry through the smoke and haze of pain. "Sunnydale vets, we was."

   "You mean the Slayer ran you out of town."

   "Shut your hole!" David dangles, forgotten, the Hellion trembling with rage at Kate's mockery. "Better get a head start while I'm dicin' up the new meat. 'Cause I'm comin' after you next."

   "Your boss is dead, you moron." Kate's voice rings out from everywhere and nowhere as the demon stares wildly around the half-demolished office. "What the hell are you fighting for?"

   "Man paid in advance." A steel claw springs from his captor's glove with a testicle-shrinking _shnk_, caressing his cheek. "The Hellions don't welsh on a deal! What we start, we damn well finish --"

   "It's light beer."

   The Hellion gapes. "Why, that bast--"

   The groin kick doesn't quite bring the demon to his knees, but it's enough distraction for Kate to slip something around his neck from behind. David glimpses plastic, identifies a bicycle cable before the thrashing sets in and then he's just trying to hold on to the knife hand, keep it from doing any damage.

   Bellowing, the Hellion topples over, both humans attached like Siamese triplets. David hangs on for dear life, but its struggles aren't getting any weaker. The burn in his muscles, the stress of no sleep...

   Is this how it's going to be?

   A discreet cough. "Gentlemen?"

   David looks up, bleary-eyed, to a round and rosy face ill fitting the quietly expensive suit it seems to float above. The bland, inoffensive features are eminently forgettable, and yet the man's eyes glisten, dark and powerful.

   "Very honored to have you in our employ." The brisk tone commands all three beings' attention. Kate lifts her head, resulting in another cough. "And Miss Lockley. Terribly sorry, didn't see you."

   "What is this?" The Hellion's chest heaves with effort, still breathing despite the tightly wrapped cable compressing what should be its windpipe. Lucky its balls were in the right place.

   "Regrettably, your services are no longer required." A flash of green from a suit pocket. "Naturally, you will not be held liable in any way for failing to complete the contract. Your remaining obligations prorated, resulting in this generous severance package."

   The Hellion stares at the outstretched wad of cash as if hypnotized.

   "It's real." The dry voice becomes a knife. "I suggest you take it."

   "And I suggest you take that," the demon snarls, coming out of his trance. "And pound it up your lily-white ass!"

   A note of disappointment enters the man's calm and reasonable tone. "You are refusing our offer?"

   "Hellions fight for honor." The demon's struggles intensify, as David's muscles scream for relief. "For fun. Maybe for beer. But the day we take orders from a suit and tie guy like you is the day we lay down and die!"

   The man raises one eyebrow at the punctuating glob of spittle. "You've already accomplished the first."

   "When I get my hands on you..." It feels as though the Hellion is trying to drag himself across the floor; climb to his feet with Kate and David clinging to him like playful children. "I'm gonna make you eat that money. Then that stupid suit. Then what's left of these two --"

   "I see." The man pulls a superslim cell phone from his breast pocket, opening it with a decisive snap. "I suppose we'd better let the authorities handle this."

   "You're bluffing," Kate manages to wheeze, reminding David of her existence. The detective's legs, like his, are scissored around the Hellions' own on the opposite side. "The senior partners don't want the supernatural showing up on the front page...any more than their clients."

   "When it comes to the front page, there is only one thing that matters." The thin, smile is like a razor across the rounded, almost jolly face. "Not to disturb the status quo."

   The Hellion says nothing, breathing heavily as he stares the man down.

   "Be smart." The suit actually sounds sympathetic. "Take the money."

   With a roar, the Hellion hurls the two humans aside. David can hear the thump of the demon's boots as it charges full speed, feel the clomping and stomping echo through the floor into his cheekbone.

   As he lifts his head in a daze, the demon lays his hands on the man's throat.

   "Bend over, pinky..."

   With no sign of fear, the man reaches out with one hand, slapping the Hellion on the neck.

   After all the abuse they've taken since he landed in LA, the scream that splits the air nearly shatters David's eardrums into the bargain. The Hellion drops his prey and staggers backward, clutching his throat as he starts to convulse. For a moment he remains upright, rigid and perfectly still, before collapsing in a twitching heap.

   "Poison," David croaks.

   "Really." The man gingerly twists his ring, flexing his fingers to ensure the stabbing point is back in place. "I would hope you were more amenable to compromise?"

   David manages to hoist himself up on one knee, offering Kate a hand.

   "We know who you are."

   David freezes as the man continues.

   "We know what you want."

   David turns, staring into eyes of endless black.

   "Work with us."

   An empty hand extends toward him.

   "We'll help you get it."

  
**

  
   Beside her, Willow's starting to fidget, not quite squirm. Like she wants to run up and hug Xander, but she's restraining herself. Far as the rest of the Scoobies, they're looking pretty damn intimidated. Faith doesn't think it's entirely from the brewing confrontation.

   She was never really there, that summer after Buffy leapt from the tower. But in her mindwalk with Willow, in those final days before the fall of Sunnydale, Faith had learned everything and more. They'd all heard Willow's voice in their heads; knew perfectly well her power to invade their minds, lay them bare upon a whim. To destroy the world, or change it.

   "All right." Faith goes to sit, then reconsiders. "B. Let's start with y--"

   "Oh, this is not fair!" Lorne plucks the cheap fabric of his vaudeville barker suit. The others regard him with astonishment as he finds a cane in one hand, removing his straw hat and glaring at it like a watery Mai Thai. "I didn't sign on to get sucked into any of this! Nosireebob, I don't like it --"

   "Dignity?" Dana's hair is its usual tangled mess, but her uniform is impeccable: Top hat perfectly starched, tights and tuxedo pressed, not a run in her fishnet stockings. In her right hand she carries the Scythe, holding it upright like a spear, blade resting on the floor. "Only in the dark."

   "Dana!" Xander rises halfway from his chair, open mouthed. "I mean -- Zatanna!"

   Buffy bristles. "This better not be a comic thing --"

   "Looks more like a Greek tragedy!"

   Xander freezes, looking furtively about the room. "Am I the only one who recognizes that voice?"

   "Unfortunately not," Buffy mutters.

   "Unfortuthirdly," Willow chimes in.

   "Only one my mudda gave me, frat boy!" From the crook of Dana's other arm pops a wooden head wearing an enormous grin. "When ol' Sid croons, the chickies swoon!"

   "I've heard you sing." Dana smirks. "I wouldn't take it as a compliment."

   "He's not that bad." Lorne offers her a hand. "Heck, you're not so bad yourself. Shall we?"

   "Charmed, I'm sure." The Slayer links arms with the green-skinned demon, a spotlight appearing from overhead.

   "Don't let her lead," Sid advises. "Chick is limber -- ow!"

   "Timber." Dana smiles, rubbing her knuckles. "Shut up and sing."

   As the assembled Scoobies look on, the unlikely pair begin to dance, with Sid adding his own warbling voice:

  
      _Overture, curtain, lights  
      This is it, the night of nights  
      No more rehearsing and nursing a part  
      We know every part by heart..._

  
   Lorne twirls his cane as Sid's legs swing in time to the mysterious music. For the first time since Faith has known the young woman, Dana seems to glow with happiness and sheer exuberance.

  
      _Overture, night of nights  
      This is it, the hip of heights  
      And oh what heights we'll hit...  
      On with the show, this is it!_

  
   The music comes to a halt. Dana's face goes slack as the Slayer looks around in confusion, peering down at the dummy in her arm.

   "Did I fall asleep?"

   Sid almost sounds sympathetic. "When do ya not?"

   Dana shuffles over to the corner, plopping down in the beanbag with a bucket of popcorn. When she speaks, her tone is once more decidedly mono.

   "Show's starting."

  
**

  
   "Don't do it."

   "I was not addressing you." The man seems to hover over him like a shadow. "Do we have an agreement, sir?"

   "You don't know him." Kate rushes on, angrier and more afraid than David has ever heard from her before. "Who he works for, what they do --"

   "We maintain civic order." The droning, pleasant blandness buzzes in his ears. "Something I'd think you, as a law enforcement officer, would wholly support."

   "David. Whatever your name is." Her pleading voice is barely audible. "You don't want to get mixed up with them."

   He looks up into those endless pools. Weighing the division of loyalties, and the great unknown.

   "Deal."

   He almost expects a searing heat. But when he shakes that ghostly, floating hand, the skin is dry and cool to the touch.

  
**

  
   Willow appears to have transferred her run-and-hug impulse from Xander to Dana. Nevertheless, the witch looks back at Faith with renewed determination. May not be trying to hold her hand, but there's no mistaking the message of support.

   "How about it, B?" Faith turns a skeptical eye upon the blonde Slayer, now attired in a more modern fashion. Italian, from the look of it. "You wanna give me a song and dance?"

   "Been there, not doing that, ever again." Buffy smoothes her skirt as she stands, clearing her throat. "And actually -- that's where all of this started."

   "I'll assume that comes with an explanation." Faith has both arms folded over her chest, ignoring her own ratty shirt and jeans. Never needed fancy duds. Damned if she'll start now.

   (_no father could be prouder_)

   "So." Her expectant gaze remains fixed upon Buffy. "Wanna tell me your version?"

   "There's no _version_!" And now the righteous anger, the verge of breaking into those classic tears. Buffy takes a deep breath, striving for her own calm. "There's just...what happened."

   "Left both your undead exes hangin' out to dry." Faith shakes her head at the thought. "You knew Spike was alive, too?"

   "Yes." Buffy's hesitance momentarily dissolves into familiar annoyance. "After I practically had to beat it out of Andrew. In his defense, I have to say Spike told him not to tell me. Which is _so_ typical --"

   "We knew," Giles cuts in. The lines in his face and the grey in his hair all look up to date, making his disapproval all the more severe. "Buffy and I were both perfectly aware that if Spike were alive -- undead, rather --"

   "Not the time for pedantry," Willow helpfully points out.

   "-- and in jeopardy, that might exert undue influence upon her decisions. Particularly if she knew that Angel and Spike were working together, in the service of the earthly manifestation of a multidimensional evil that has existed since the dawn of time --"

   "I told Andrew," Buffy grimly continues, "to tell me everything that happened when he picked up Dana. Everything he might have left out of his written reports."

   "The ones I relied on?" Willow looks scandalized. "Buffy, how could you? Any information that could have helped Dana -- how could you withhold that from us?"

   "Don't you dare tell me I don't care about her." Buffy shoves back her chair, both hands flat on the table with fury in her eyes. "I love that girl. As much as I can --"

   "As much as you have time for," Faith interjects.

   "As much as _any_ of my Slayers." Buffy glares at Faith, unrelenting. "Maybe more. But strategic decisions rely on numbers."

   "_Your_ Slayers." Faith nods. "So they're not their own girls."

   "You know what I mean --"

   "No, I don't. That's why we're here." Faith looks over to the corner. Lorne and Dana sit side by side in the beanbag chair, munching popcorn as they observe the proceedings.

   "Dana."

   The younger Slayer looks over with a frown.

   "You called me. Couple days ago."

   Dana nods, continuing to stuff her face.

   "You remember what you said?"

   "I never forget." Dana's face suddenly transforms into a grotesque and twisted mask. "I can't do this again, Giles! You have to help me --"

   "Stop." Buffy looks ill. "You don't need to...just stop."

   "Then tell me," Faith demands. Pretty sure she knows the answer, but she wants to hear it. "Do what again?"

   "You didn't kill him." Xander spoils his helpful interjection with an addendum. "This time."

   "But I made the final call."

   Buffy raises both hands, catching the descending sword.

   "Just like then."

   Rising, she wrenches the blade from Angel's grasp; whirling about, impaling him in a single thrust. In an instant the vampire is reduced to mere aftermath, a smear upon their vision.

   "Probably why I left too much of it up to Giles until the last minute. I said we had to distance ourselves from Angel. But I delegated." The Slayer's appearance begins to shift, growing darker. "Because I didn't want to deal."

   Willow and the others are staring in horror. Belatedly, Faith recognizes the new outfit from Willow's memories: The black dress they buried the Slayer in after her fall from the tower; the elegant fabric stained with mud, torn to tatters.

   "And by the time we got intel on the battle royale...it was too late for strategy. We only had one option." Buffy swallows, looking down at the sword still in her hand. "Containment."

   "Your forever knight in shining armor." Faith shakes her head, unbelieving. "And you throw him to the wolves."

   "I was in post-Sunnydale recovery mode." Buffy may be in pain, but the defensiveness is back in full. "I wasn't neglecting my duties. I was doing good work --"

   "Vatican liason." Willow's interjection is without rancor.

   "So it was in Europe!" The funeral dress shimmers, replaced with the latest in _haute couture_. With pumps.

   Faith snorts. "Off on a Roman holiday --"

   "I was _working_!" Buffy snaps. "God, you have no idea! I wasn't even _in_ Rome! Andrew was running interference, leading Spike and Angel on some wild goose chase --"

   "Partly my idea," Xander interjects. "And I'm not too ashamed to admit that it was fun."

   "Well --" Giles squirms in his chair, going to polish his glasses before reconsidering. "Don't flatter yourself with all of the responsibility. As I recall, you and I took great pleasure in providing Andrew with detailed instructions."

   "The jacket?" Xander smirks. "Definitely my idea."

   "I had a decoy. The Immortal wasn't even in Rome at the time either." Buffy looks grim. "Long story, not relevant."

   "Uh, Buff?" Xander's discomfiture is obvious. "You _did_ say you weren't sleeping with him?"

   "Along with it being none of your business --"

   "Not relevant." Faith glares at Xander, then Buffy. "And I can't believe I just said that about your sex life."

   "Small favors." The tiny smile on Buffy's face is gone before Faith could swear to its existence.

   "And what about before?" Faith looks her in the eye. "When Fred was being hollowed out and burned away? I mean, Lorne told us about it but we got Wes's notes, we could go over it all again. Describe it in gruesome detail --"

   "You don't get to do this." From across the table, Buffy points her sword directly at Faith. Except it's no longer a sword, now the familiar double blade she'd thought long gone. Consigned to the crater that was once Sunnydale.

   "That's mine," Faith says, very quietly.

   "You think I didn't agonize over these decisions? That we sat around wearing little hats drinking champagne? Having a good chuckle?" The knife trembles in Buffy's hand. "I didn't come here to justify myself to you or anyone. And if you think, for one _second_ \--"

   Buffy stumbles and stops as the knife disappears.

   "Not just yours to play with anymore, B."

   The knife glows in Faith's hand, enlongating out in both directions; metal curving, turning crimson as it sprouts a haft and grows wood, coming to a rounded point.

   Buffy watches in dismay, along with the others, as the dark Slayer holds up the Scythe.

   "Now I got the talking stick."

  
**

  
   "You know you're going to regret this."

   "Helping you clean up?" David pauses in the sweeping of broken glass. With dawn less than an hour away, Kate's office is shrouded in gloom. If you squint, it almost looks normal. Until you notice the dead demon biker waiting to be carted away.

   "You can play smart with me." Kate sounds gentle now as she leans on her own broom, watching him carefully. "But don't think you can play them."

   "Mutually beneficial arrangement." David shrugs. "If it turns out otherwise -- not like I signed in blood."

   "I knew someone who thought he could make a deal with them." Kate's back to her old frowny self. "He thought wrong."

   David can't help but smile. "Are you going to save me?"

   Kate doesn't return the gesture.

   "That was his job. I save people from criminals. From demons." The detective's voice hardens. "What I don't do is save them from themselves."

   David nods. "So you won't be coming to my rescue again."

   Kate shrugs, returning to her sweeping. "Maybe you're not worth it."

   "Hey, I didn't have to stay and help clean." David covers his mouth, fighting an enormous yawn. "Point me toward the closest diner, I'm out of your hair."

   "Now where's the fun in that?"

   David blinks. "You're serious."

   Kate turns, hands on her hips with a challenging gaze. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

   He has to admit she doesn't.

   "I'm not one of these psycho chicks who gets off on beating bad guys to a pulp. I don't have super strength, and I'm far from an expert. Call me an educated amateur." Kate shakes her head, like she can't believe she's confiding in him. "I don't care if you get yourself killed. But I'll be damned if I let you run around town putting other people at risk."

   David ponders the ramifications. "So you're keeping an eye on me?"

   "Let's say I'm watching your back." Kate smiles again, without humor. "And the rest of you."

  
**

  
   She's as surprised as anyone. Still, damned if she shows it. Faith plants the tip of the Scythe in the floor, relishing the expression on Buffy's face. Even Willow, of all people, is looking at her girlfriend with a mixture of surprise and newfound respect.

   "So, G." The drawl comes naturally despite her regard for this man, one of the few. Faith knows her defensiveness comes too late to cover the pain of betrayal. "What's your story?"

   Giles meets her gaze with admirable aplomb. Then again, he's had more practice.

   "After Andrew first brought Dana back to London, our first subsequent contact with Angel was when he called asking for help with Ill--" Giles stops, collecting himself. "Fred."

   "So you do know her name." Faith actually wishes she could take that one back.

   "I told him Willow was -- unavailable. I knew Buffy was in Europe and otherwise occupied." The spotlight shines down on Giles, slowly growing brighter, accentuating each haggard crevice in the worn and rugged map of his face. "As a Watcher, I knew better than anyone the danger posed by Illyria."

   "Leary? Oh, she's a peach." Lorne offers Dana an ornate stem glass. "Mimosa?"

   "My contingency plan," Giles continues, relentless, "such as it was, involved Kennedy traveling to Los Angeles with the Scythe. Riley was able to offer...a minimal backup. Of sorts."

   "Translating from his traditionally delicate turns of phrase," Xander cuts in. "Riley's people were going to nuke the site from orbit."

   "You said it was the only way to be sure!" Giles half-rises from his chair.

   "When am I not quoting something?" Xander's surprise turns to bitter disappointment. "And since when did you try to dodge responsibility for anything that mattered? You weren't consulting me for my opinion. You were trying to spread around the blame."

   "I did what had to be done."

   Giles' calm, pained voice cuts through the sudden hush.

   "Not because I am any sort of hero."

   A young man lies on the table, broken and bleeding, incongruously wearing a fancy dress.

   "But because no one else could."

   Giles leans over the injured man as if offering solace. All the blood is draining from Buffy's face, Willow and Xander likewise stricken by recognition.

   "Glory would have destroyed the world, and more."

   The Watcher's expression never alters as he places one hand over the young man's mouth. The man thrashes about, his struggles slowly weakening.

   "Illyria was an equal threat, if not a greater one."

   As his victim's movements cease, Giles looks up to a horrified Buffy. The sight seems to snap him out of his fugue, and he stares back down at Ben's lifeless body, just before it vanishes.

   Faith is unmoved. "All killer, no filler. Huh, G?"

   "I thought --" Willow's definitely seeing the old librarian in a new light. More illusions, falling away. "I don't know what I thought."

   "I'd do it again." Suddenly Giles is wearing a trenchcoat, his glasses gone, his face scratched and bruised. He faces Willow, barely able to remain standing. "If I had to."

   Xander doesn't say a word. But he and Buffy are staring at Willow, and the witch's eyes have gone as black as hell itself.

   "I can't believe you did this." Willow has that calmness about her that Faith knows from experience won't last. It doesn't. "Buffy, I put Angel's soul back! Twice! Why did I bother if you were going to abandon him and his entire team? Just because they were trying to take down Wolfram and Hart from inside?"

   "You don't know that," Buffy returns, cutting. "_We_ didn't know. I was juggling too many other plates to worry about one ex, let alone two."

   "Cut your losses and run." Faith nods in mock understanding. "Except you didn't lose anyone."

   "We've lost plenty of people." Buffy's own quiet anger is now less so. "Do you really want to go there?"

   Faith doesn't take the bait. "Just curious how you justify keepin' me out of the loop."

   "Ever hear of a strategic decision?" That did it; Buffy's officially snapped, crackled and popped. "Where you go, Will follows! We couldn't risk her getting killed. Or captured, and used against us --"

   "So you were doin' this for my sake, or hers?"

   "You know she's never seen straight about him." Xander clarifies, as Faith looks over in confusion. "Buffy. Ree Angel."

   Faith's sour smile is fleeting. "Right."

   "Our field reports were crap. We had no idea what was happening on the ground."

   The spotlight shines down, casting a shadow upon Xander's face.

   "Buffy says we have to help him? Sure, let's blindly send in an army of Slayers. Didn't work out so good last time."

   The shadow becomes a circular stain, a line extending around his head. Xander's single bloodshot eye stares at Faith like a dagger as he adjusts the patch.

   "Get them killed for their leader's vampire ex? Great for morale."

   "You always did have a bug up your ass about him." Faith returns the stare. "Even when he saved it."

   "And I remember who he saved it from." Xander has the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry."

   "So even before all this," Faith continues, ignoring him, focusing on Buffy. "Ever since Andrew brought Dana back -- you guys already had your minds made up. And all this time, you didn't say one word to me _or_ Will. Not to ask my opinion, not even to frickin' tell us what was goin' on. After Angel came with that stupid amulet, pulled your fat out of the fire and --"

   Xander brings his hand down on the table. "Dammit, _I_ was the deciding vote!"

   Willow looks at him, stunned, her voice still and small. "What?"

   "I said --" Xander swallows, torn. "I said we couldn't lose you to the dark."

   Willow looks -- and sounds, to Faith -- to be getting angry for the first time. "You have the gall --"

   "Remember Kingman's Bluff?" Xander pulls open his shirt, revealing faint but visible scars. "No _way_ I was sending you into Wolfram and Hart."

   "Because your judgement is so impeccable." Willow's anger has fled, replaced with sadness. "After you lied to Buffy? Didn't tell her to hold off until I had the spell ready? I never said to kick his ass!"

   "What?" Buffy turns to Xander, devastated. "You condemned him to three hundred years of brutal torture in hell?"

   Xander stands firm. "Good start."

   "What did he ever do to you?" Buffy protests.

   The tension in his face makes Faith want to scream. When Xander speaks, his words are like bloody gravel in his throat.

   "Screwed up every woman I ever loved."

   "No." Buffy's razor tongue is freshly sharp. "Anya? You did just fine on your own."

   Willow cuts in before he can respond. "Because we always have our reasons for keeping secrets, don't we? What, Xan? You thought Angel wasn't clean any more?"

   "He's never been clean." Xander appears abruptly uncertain. "But at least I can admit mistakes were made."

   "Imagine that," Faith sneers. "Wanna share with the class?"

   "Cordy." The pain written on Xander's face makes Faith sorry she asked. "After Anya died -- the thought of her surviving, fighting the good fight...it kept me going."

   "The mystical coma," Willow breathes. "Oh, Xan..."

   Xander shrugs away the sympathy.

   "You know you're my best friend. And my sense of loyalty to you trumps Giles and Buffy any day."

   Willow's lip quivers, ever so slightly. "But."

   "But when it came down to it, I sided with them. Maybe I'd have done it just to spite Angel. Or I might have been more mature. But hearing about Cordy was the last straw -- or so I thought. And then I get a report that says she's dead, and you know what I say to myself, right after _maybe I could have saved her_? He got her killed."

   The spotlight goes out, leaving Xander in darkness.

   "Let him burn."

   He sits down, looking horribly tired.

   "That's all."

   "Xan --" Buffy reaches out as if to squeeze his shoulder, her hand falling short. "You don't have to protect me. It was my call."

   Xander appears to take little comfort in this. "So the vote was just a formality? A rubber stamp?"

   "That's not what I --" The blonde Slayer rubs her forehead for a moment before turning to Faith.

   "I admit I've always been...possessive. Especially where you're concerned. And Angel is a particularly sore spot."

   Faith doesn't budge. "And?"

   "And it was a hard choice." Buffy's voice softens to something like sympathy. "Don't tell me you don't know what those are."

   "Yeah." The bitterness that boils inside won't be denied, as Faith gives full vent to her feelings. "Leader's got to look good for the troops. Gotta prove to Daddy that her ex ain't leading her around by the --"

   "Now you listen here --" Giles' voice is as cold as his eyes. Faith's about to respond, but Buffy interrupts right back and it all turns to shouting.

   "Can you believe these mooks?" Lorne looks up at Dana from her lap. At some point the demon has transformed into a dummy, taking Sid's place. "Guess it runs in the family. Say, did I ever tell you about my cousin Oedipus --"

   Faith steps up to the table, driving the point of the Scythe through the wood, into the floor. Silence falls on the room as she stares at nothing, until she can speak without yelling.

   "How --" Faith clears her throat, hating the cracked and beaten tone to her voice. "How's Dana doin'?"

   Everyone else looks at Giles.

   "She..." The Watcher rubs the bridge of his nose, carefully weighing his words. "She has her lucid periods."

   Dana waves from the corner. "Sitting right here?"

   "Don't sweat it, my little Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster." Lorne chucks her under the chin. "You're beautiful to me."

   Faith looks over at Dana, sorrow in her eyes.

   "You were right."

   Dana shrugs. "Usually am."

   "And I'm sorry I won't be seein' you again."

   "Now hold on a minute." Xander sounds like he knows where this is going. "Let's slow down. Take a step back, before --"

   "Don't call me again." Faith stares each of them down in turn. "Any of you."

   Buffy looks desperate. "Faith --"

   "Always knew you wanted to screw me, B." Faith regards her own angel with something approaching pity. "Just hoped it'd be more fun."

   And with that, she disappears.

   Along with the Scythe.

  
**

  
   Buffy's still staring at the vacant spot on the floor. Willow gives them a sad look, but says nothing.

   Then she's gone too.

   Dana rises from the beanbag chair, brushing crumbs from her shirt. Suddenly she stumbles, clutching her head. Xander's ready to rush to her side when she flickers once, twice, before going out like a candle.

   "Ow!" From the floor, Lorne rubs his wooden skull. "Typical. Tell 'em what they want to hear, and they cast you aside..."

   Buffy ignores him as she stares around the room. The walls and ceiling are pulling back, fading to nothing to reveal a vast audience.

   Every Slayer, past and present, gazing down upon her in sorrow and judgement.

  
**

  
   Dana sits up, eyes wide. "We know."

   "We do." Rona nods, looking over at Vi and Chao-Ahn.

   Vi seems to have regressed to her hesitant Sunnydale self. "So what are we gonna do about it?"

   Rona sighs, lost in thought.

   "Probably fight."

  
**

  
   Faith slowly rises from the floor, ignoring cramped muscles. For long moments she stands there. _Not_ punching a hole in the wall; _not_ grabbing and breaking whatever is within reach.

   Because the Scythe is still in her hands.

   Doesn't make her feel better, but it's something.

   She looks over at the ratty couch. Lorne still lies unconscious, but breathing regularly, looking slightly less decrepit.

   Willow comes up behind, laying a hesitant hand on her shoulder. Faith can sense the other woman's desire for a simple hug, to rub away her tension, but overwhelmed by fear. And curiosity.

   Faith doesn't turn around. "Are you with me?"

   "You know I am." Not a moment's hesitation.

   Carefully, reverently, Faith places the Scythe on the table before turning to face her partner.

   "Then it's time we got our own gig."

   Willow's eyes widen. "You mean --"

   "No Council. No Buffy." Faith reaches out an expectant hand, poised for a soul power handshake. "Just us."

   Willow accepts, wincing at the tiny spark. "Ow!"

   Faith looks at her hand, wiggling her fingers. "Magic?"

   Willow offers a rueful grin. "Static."

  
**

  
   "_Alejandro_!"

   "Coming, _padre_!"

   Dust kicks up from his heels, the bucket banging his knees as he dodges the tiny lizards that dash and skitter among the rocks and scrub despite the afternoon heat. The well is scant since the last rain that brought out the frogs in the scant pools that surround the church. This far from town or proper roads, their house of worship -- a tiny structure open on three sides, barely a roof over an altar -- barely sees perhaps three locals each year, let alone outsiders. But Father Cirilo had that very morning looked to the horizon and sworn by all that was holy that before the evening, they would receive visitors.

   _How could he know?_ Ignicio had demanded. _He's playing with us. Trying to make believe he's some big brujo._

   Anyway, it hadn't mattered. Both of them knew they would spend the rest of the day sweeping and sweating alongside the good Father, who if nothing else was himself an admirable worker. This far from modern comforts, even the idle engaged in fierce struggle for survival.

   Of the two of them, Ignicio had actually been beyond Morita, the nearest town of less than a hundred, and brought back a picture of the towers of glass and steel. Alejandro liked to look at it now and then, but the thought of going there never crossed his mind. This far from the border, the _Americanos_ were only the vaguest of nuisances. His father had been a similar photograph, only more faded, stuck to the wall of his mother's house. The day she sent him away "to serve God", she seemed healthier than ever before. It made it worse when he got the letter that she had succumbed to her illness; some dark and mysterious malignance that ate her away from within.

   His stomach growls at the thought of company. A normal day's fare is satisfying enough -- eggs and the _pollo_ they come from, fresh milk and goat's meat. But guests are an occasion to indulge. Even with Cinco de Mayo come and gone some weeks ago, there is always the hope they can convince Father they all deserve a good hearty _champurrado_...

   Ignicio is busy with the old soccer ball, now more duct tape than leather. Alejandro kicks it away and hides a grin at the older boy's curse, wiping his brow as he sets down the pails of water. If he's in a good mood, Father may pretend not to have heard.

   He looks up as the bouncing ball comes to a halt.

   The figure of a woman stands before them, as tall as Father, clad in crimson leather. An eerie blue tint colors her hair and skin through the thick shroud of dust, a trail of footsteps leading behind her into the heart of the desert.

   She looks down at the ball, studying it before placing a tentative foot on top.

   "Sand," she murmurs. Ignicio takes a step toward her, stopping as Alejandro comes up behind, placing one hand on his shoulder.

   "Too slippery." The woman shakes her head. "Needs more friction."

   Alejandro clears his throat. "Are you a _luchadora_?"

   She looks up, and he finds himself transfixed by her eyes. They are as blue as the rest of her, all pale and shattered ice.

   "I am..." She cocks her head, taking them both in. "Lost."

   Alejandro frowns. The woman doesn't necessarily make it sound like a bad thing. Morita is nearly a half day's journey on foot, and anyway, the direction of her footsteps is completely the opposite...

   "Where did you come from?" As usual, Ignicio is eager to please. Perhaps too eager.

   "Los Angeles." Not a flicker of expression alters the woman's face.

   Insane, Alejandro decides. Possibly heat stricken.

   "You must be thirsty." He smiles, showing both hands open, as he would to a bandit. "Please, come out of the sun."

   His worry only grows when she follows without quarrel. Seeming docile is a strategy preferred by the smarter predators. Ignicio is chattering away, trying in vain to evoke some form of response. But the woman seems fixated on the building, drawn toward it as an oasis.

   "Welcome!" Father beams, advancing toward them with open arms. "We are so pleased --"

   "Spare me your words." With a wave of her hand she dismisses him, placing the other on the stone wall of the church. Her eyes flutter shut as her head tilts skyward, seeking something beyond their ken. "Yes..."

   "What's going on?" Ignicio's annoyance has returned. "Father, who is she?"

   "I don't know." Father's voice is hushed as he holds both of them back. He takes a step, freezing when her head snaps toward him, eyes open.

   "Approach me at your peril." Her gaze flickers to the boys. "You would do well to leave this place."

   "What are you saying?" Father has a look on his face Alejandro has never seen before. Never before has this man been at a loss, whether for words or action. But this is no mere worry.

   A low rumble rises up from the earth, vibrating through his feet, into his currently empty stomach. Dimly, Alejandro realizes the entire church is creaking; groaning as it begins ever so slightly to _move_, swaying back and forth.

   "Please!" Father falls to his knees, further adding to their horror. "I beg you --"

   The tremors cease as her head slowly turns. Alejandro shudders, reminded of nothing so much as a praying mantis. Those insectile movements, that alien gaze, now conspire to fill him with dread.

   "I have lost..." Again she falters, before hardening with fresh resolve. "I will not have this as well taken from me."

   "Please don't." Alejandro feels lightheaded as her gaze comes to rest on him. "The old ones, they -- they have nowhere else to go..."

   His bladder shivers at the tightening of her scrutiny.

   "You also come to worship."

   "Yes." Relief floods through him at her realization, only to be followed with something he can't recognize. It takes him a moment to realize that it's still fear. Of what he can't be certain, which only makes it worse.

   "You're welcome to stay." Father scrambles to his feet and brushes the dust from his robe. "As long as you like."

   "I go and stay where I please. And when." The note of defiance in her voice is less menacing than petulant. Alejandro fights a smile.

   "Although I would ask you --" The priest clears his throat at her glare. "To avoid frightening the _abuelas_ \-- perhaps a bit...removed from the altar?"

   Alejandro lets out a shaky breath as she turns and walks away from the building. The lone, scraggly tree some ten meters distant has been dead for decades, offering precious little shelter. But the strange woman seems to hold this in even greater reverence than the church, running her hand over the trunk before settling into a lotus at its base.

   "Here."

   Father seems about to protest once more. Nevertheless, the older man remains silent as Alejandro approaches the tree, stopping at what he hopes is a respectful distance.

   "What will you be doing?"

   Her eyes spring open, nearly making him jump.

   "You would dare to know my purpose?"

   "I would." With another dim flicker of wonder, or horror, Alejandro realizes she isn't breathing.

   Her head tilts the slightest fraction. "It will gain you nothing."

   "I don't care." With all his might, Alejandro prays. "I want to see."

   The stranger absorbs this for a moment before turning her gaze to the sun. Again that sense of vertigo as her eyes remain open, unflinching.

   "I just realized." Her voice is softer, with a trace of an accent. "I might not be around forever."

   The tree seems to shiver; to subtly bend around her.

   As he watches, the tiniest shoot of green emerges from the tip of one branch.

  
      _I think I understand.  
      Fear is like a wilderland  
      Stepping stones or sinking sand..._

      - Joni Mitchell

  
      **In memory of ANDY HALLETT  
      1975-2009**

**  


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